drusilla

“I was in the middle of getting myself off.” 

After hearing Steve knock, he watched you shuffle to the door trying to put clothes on, trying to pretend you weren't leaking with him still. 

As he hid in the doorway of your closet, in the dark trying to tuck himself back together, he heard your voice trail off, and bit back a growl in distaste. He didn't like Steve knowing you that intimately. “Like. Fully committed. Lights low. Door locked. Very enthusiastic.”

He heard the silence and then Steve's voice. “Oh.” A few other murmured words, and he heard you again. 

Cleary, this time. “You don’t want to supervise?” The thought of Steve touching you like that in any way, shape, or form, made him want to snap his neck like a twig. 

You.

Steve's shadow and neighbor. Steve's friend.

He remembered your scent first. The strongest sense tied to memory. Peonies and musk and vanilla bypassed his thalamus and landed straight into his hippocampus and amygdala, burrowing deep there. 

As he walked the halls of the exhibit, more and more pieces came back, slow and disjointed, like shards of painted glass scattered across the floor of his mind.

He passed the stand of pictures of him and Steve, the Howling Commandos, and what seemed to be his own fucking funeral. Bits and pieces battled for space in his brain he didn't have yet, giving way to a pounding sensation on the inside of his skull, sudden enough it made his vision blur for a few seconds.

Like some version of him was trying to break out. 

His hand came up instinctively, fingers pressing against his temple as the museum hallway tilted slightly beneath his feet.

The exhibit around him blurred into color and glass and distant voices as another memory tried to surface, clawing its way up through the conditioning Hydra had hammered into his skull.

He staggered sideways, gripping the edge of a display case to steady himself. The metal fingers of his prosthetic curled against the glass with a faint screech that made a nearby tourist glance over.

Bucky pushed away immediately.

The air inside the museum suddenly felt wrong — too clean, too loud, too full of ghosts trying to claw their way back into his head.

He turned sharply and walked toward the side corridor he’d noticed earlier when he came in. A service hallway.

His footsteps echoed off concrete instead of polished marble now, each step sending another dull pulse through his skull. The headache hadn’t eased — if anything, it throbbed harder the farther he moved from the exhibit.

Like his mind was angry at him for walking away before the picture was finished.

He pushed the door under the glowing red "EXIT" sign, and as soon as the sun hit him, the overhead of the exhibit faded away and the busy noise of D.C. filled his ears, he could feel oxygen in his lungs again. 

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

As he breathed deep, he noticed an unmarked black car parked there. All tinted windows. 

Bucky's heart raced again and his body tensed automatically. Predator instincts snapping into place before conscious thought could catch up.

Did they find me? Already? 

His brain was going a million miles a minute and overheating. 

He looked around, planning a getaway, looking for traps, snipers, and before he could get much further than that, the door opened, and out of the car you stepped. 

He didn't recognize you, per se. But his body somehow… knew. 

There was a manila envelope tucked under one arm, thick with papers and creased from being held too tightly. Your clothes were practical — thick, dark leggings, what looked like running shoes, a jacket zipped halfway up over a hoodie, and sunglasses.

Sunglasses that did nothing to hide the purple blooming on the apple of your cheek. 

His fingers flexed as his stomach twisted at the sight, a little part of him knowing that was probably his doing. A small, ugly thought flickered through his mind.

You stopped a few feet from the car, studying him like you’d been doing it for a long time already.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You could see the tension in his body, the uncertainty and distrust flashing in his eyes. 

When he spoke, his voice came out rough, shaking at the beginning of the sentence, from not being used. "Who did that to you?"

The question seemed to surprise him almost as much as it did you.

He studied you for another second, like he was trying to fit you into the fractured spaces in his mind.

“That,” you said quietly, “is a long story.” You walked to the other side of the car, opened the passenger door and threw the envelope on the seat, tuning back to him. "You coming?"

Washington faded in the rearview mirror in slow increments — traffic thinning, buildings lowering, glass and steel turning into brick and then eventually trees. The late afternoon sun filtered through the windshield in long, warm streaks that flickered across the dashboard as the road curved deeper into Virginia.

Bucky.

It felt so weird he had a name now. 

You wondered exactly how much he remembered. You read the files as you gathered them before it all went to shit, you knew whatever twisted version you had of him, it wasn't the same one Steve tried to save. 

Bucky didn’t speak much.

He sat angled slightly toward the window, one arm resting loosely on the door, metal fingers flexing every so often like they had their own restless thoughts. His eyes moved constantly — mirrors, tree lines, passing cars.

You kept the drive steady, hands loose on the wheel, like this was just another quiet afternoon road trip instead of the first time you’d seen him since the causeway.

Eventually the paved highway gave way to a narrow two-lane road, then a gravel path that wound through thick woods. Tall trees leaned overhead, their branches forming a natural tunnel that swallowed the last hints of civilization behind you.

The cabin sat tucked beside a wide, slow river that caught the sunlight like glass. It wasn’t large, but it was well kept — simple wood siding, a small wraparound porch, wide windows facing the water.

You parked the car near the edge of the clearing and turned the engine off.

For a moment neither of you moved.

The sudden silence of the woods settled around the car — water moving gently over rocks, leaves rustling in a breeze that smelled like pine and river mist.

Bucky’s eyes swept the property. He narrowed his gaze at the lack of findings. His jaw tightened, “Too clean,” he muttered under his breath.

You snorted. “Yeah, well,” you said as you opened your door and stepped out onto the gravel, “I vacuum.”

His boots crunched lightly against the gravel when he got out of the car, as he stood beside the door, scanning the cabin again with the same sharp caution he’d had since the alley behind the museum.

As you walked to the trunk to get your duffel bags, one of your belongings and the other of food, you decided you'd be the chatty one. As it's always been. 

You lifted a hand, gesturing vaguely toward the surrounding forest.

“Off grid. No utilities tied to my name. No property record in any government database worth a damn. Bought it under three shell companies and a retired fisherman in Montana who thinks he owns a lake house he’s never seen.”

“Hydra doesn’t know it exists.” You tilted your head slightly. “And neither does SHIELD. That part made his eyes narrow a fraction. You pushed the trunk closed and started toward the cabin steps. “Just me.”

As he followed you in, his eyes took inventory of the inside of the cabin. Warm air spilled out — wood smoke, clean linen, something faintly herbal from the kitchen.

Simple furniture. Neat. A couch near the fireplace. A small table at the center, over a rug. A bookshelf. A kitchen tucked into the back corner with the smallest kitchen island known to man. 

"Bathroom's that way," you nodded your head to your left, dropping the duffel bags in the kitchen by the cabinets. "Bedroom's the door before."

No surveillance. No technology. Just quiet.

You put refrigerated things in the small fridge by the kitchen corner, and grabbed the duffel bag, handing it to him. "I figured you and Steve were the same size." He looked at you puzzled. "Got a few changed of clothes for you, washed away all his star splangled piousness."

Bucky didn't say anything, just stared at you like he was trying to grasp at a thread in his brain that kept slipping away. 

You looked back at him, and nervously chuckled. "Okay, tough crowd."

Bucky’s gaze drifted back toward the table. Toward the envelope. It sat there like it had weight far heavier than paper should.

You followed his line of sight. “Yeah,” you said after a beat, pushing away from the counter. “That.” You fidgeted with the corners of the envelope. “It’s everything I could find.”

He tilted his head, as if spurring you on to keep talking. You stepped back again, folding your arms loosely.

“On Bucky,” you continued. A small pause. “On the Winter Soldier.” Another pause. “On whoever the hell you decide you are when you’re done reading it.”

“HYDRA records. SHIELD files. Soviet archives. Mission logs.” Your mouth tilted faintly. “Some things even Natasha doesn’t know exist.”

The cabin creaked softly as the wind moved through the trees outside.

It took Bucky two full days to feel some semblance that his body belonged to him again. He didn't feel underwater — at least not fully — anymore. 

The envelope stayed unopened.

It sat on the small table near the couch like a quiet third presence in the room, its corners curling slightly from the humidity drifting in through the cracked windows. Every so often Bucky’s eyes would land on it, linger for a moment, and then move away again.

Instead, he watched you.

Not in the way he used to — not from rooftops with the cold focus of a rifle scope — but with a quiet, almost instinctive attention. Like his body had decided something before his mind could catch up.

He followed you without realizing he was doing it.

When you moved around the small kitchen in the morning, he drifted closer under the pretense of getting water. When you stepped outside to the porch with a mug of coffee, he appeared a minute later, leaning against the railing like the river had been calling him there all along.

Sometimes he didn’t even seem aware of it.

You’d turn around and find him standing in the doorway watching you chop vegetables, or sitting on the edge of the couch while you flipped through one of the battered paperbacks on the shelf.

Whatever pieces of Bucky Barnes were trying to claw their way back had nothing stable to attach to yet.

Except you.

Which was… complicated.

You were standing by the kitchen counter when you finally said it.

“I’ve gotta head out tomorrow.”

“You’re leaving.” Not a question.

You grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, twisting the cap off with one hand. “Couple days,” you said casually. “Maybe three.”

His shoulders squared slightly, tension threading through the relaxed posture he’d had moments earlier. “For what?”

You took a sip before answering. “Gotta check on a couple people.” His eyes narrowed a fraction.

“Steve.” You gave a small nod.

“And Nat.” The reaction was tiny. So small most people probably wouldn’t have noticed it.

“Why?”

You shrugged one shoulder. “Because they’re probably looking for both of us.” Another pause. “And because they’re my friends.”

That word hung in the air longer than the rest.

Bucky stood in the doorway for a long time after the sound of the car disappeared, staring out at the quiet river like he was waiting for something to change.

Eventually, he turned back inside, sitting at the table, staring at the envelope like it might catch fire if he didn't. 

He decided that was as good time as any. 

Minutes passed, then hours. Probably more. 

The files inside were organized by date, the only sort of thread he could actually follow. The beginning painted a picture he could barely remember. You even managed to find things that only someone who went digging for his little sister's diary could find, anecdotes of the type of childhood he could imagine he had, pictures of his childhood, his sisters, his parents. 

Then it got… darker. 

The experiment in Azzano, the rescue, his missions with Steve, all the way to his fall of the train. How he survived hypothermia, the operative report when they attached his arm. The first real wiping session. 

HYDRA mission reports.

Redacted SHIELD intel that you somehow got unredacted.

Grainy satellite photos. Black-and-white surveillance stills.

The Winter Soldier. Asset.

Target eliminated. Location secured. Memory wipe required.

Bucky read the words on the paper, old and new, until his eyes ached. The pounding headache came back, too many versions of himself stacked on top of each other, and he decided it was enough for the night. 

He looked through the bookcase, finding stacks of crossword puzzles, sudoku, a deck of cards, all on the second drawer below the books and board games. 

The New York Times wednesday crossword was the lucky one he picked. He laid on the couch with the newspaper in front of him, and by the end, there was only one clue that had him, well, puzzled. 

Ooh, la, la!

What the fuck kind of clue was that?

Four letters. 

He tilted his head one side, then the other, trying to crack his neck, and when he stretched, he buried his face in the cushion. 

It was peonies, and soft musk, and vanilla. It was your sweatshirt that you left over the arm of the couch. 

Before realization hit, a flash went by behind his eyelids, sending his heart straight to the pit of his stomach. 

"Please, you don't have to do this, please, don't!— ah!" It was your voice, distant, far away, but there. Yours. "No! Stop! I- mmmnnghhh!"

He heard himself then. "You can tell me, it'll be our little secret." A rush of heat trickling down his stomach like lava. "Feels good, doesn't it?"

Bucky opened his eyes and sucked in a breath like he had just come out from underwater, scared of his own mind.

He had a blurred visual of what accompaied the words, was that a memory? Was it a dream? Were those his intentions with you? Were you safe with him in this remote cabin?

His thoughts raced with speed one would get a felony charge for, and he looked around to see if he was still alone. He shuffled away from the sweatshirt like it was covered in cactus spines.

His hands dragged over his face, and he decided the coldest shower the safehouse could provide would fix whatever was wrong with his mind. “You’re fine,” he muttered to himself.

He walked to the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror for longer than he'd like to admit, trying to find pieces of the James Barnes he read about. 

The shower didn't do much, but it did enough to soothe the tense muscles in his back and ease the throbbing ache in his skull. The instant ramen he made settled okay in his stomach. He settled on the old creaky bed and stared at the ceiling like it held all the answers to his questions until his eyes drifted closed. 

The chair was cold. Metal against his spine. His wrists locked down tight enough that he can feel his pulse fighting against the restraints. The room smells like antiseptic and something burned—wires, maybe, or skin. It’s dark and smells musty. Too old.

He can't move his head. 

He heard the whirring of the wiping machine, heard his own teeth grind together, and then dull footsteps walking in circles around him like a shark circling wounded prey. 

Longing, Rusted, Seventeen, Daybreak, Furnace, Nine, Benign, Homecoming, One, Freight Car.

He felt flashes of memory crumbling down like weak concrete.

And the voice spoke again. 

"Soldat?"

He heard his voice with so little emotion it didn't even feel like him. "Ya gotov otvechat'."

And before he could remember what orders he was given, the nightmare changed. 

"I'll be good! I'll comply!" Suddenly he wasn't in a HYDRA base that smelled of rust and old water, no. He was somewhere much softer, much better taken care of, much more pleasant to be in. 

You. 

He saw himself blurred, almost like he was watching it happen but feeling it all the same, heard himself coax agreement out of you, and heard your voice, broken and wet and needy, say the words. "Ya gotov otvechat'."

Bucky woke up in a cold sweat, breathing like he just choked while running a marathon.

The room was dark, a bedside table clock telling him it was barely past 2am, and when he looked down he groaned in shame at the sight of the tent he was pitching in his pants, aching and leaking enough to wet a spot on the front of his pants.

He decided to toss. And turn. And toss again, trying to go back to sleep. 

He threw the covers off of him, walking to the kitchen and side eyeing the sweatshirt tossed on the couch like it might lunge at him. Tried to mush down the heat in the back of his throat with a glass of water, which proved unsuccessful.

He laid back in bed, covers over his legs and waist, and closed his eyes, wishing, hoping, praying he'd drift away into anywhere his shitty ability to maladaptive daydream would take him. 

Which was right back to you. 

The synapses in his brain just wouldn't stop. 

"You didn't show up for days." Your voice was distant, like a weird doppler effect was happening. You sounded sad, like you felt forgotten about. 

It kept coming to him in flashes, “You disappear,” you said, ticking it off on your fingers. “You come back. You act like nothing happened. Rinse. Repeat.” This time he could almost feel the supple skin of your cheeks under the pads of his fingers. 

His hand twitched on the pillow above his head, and he sighed deeply. Each inch his hand moved lower, the clearer the picture got. 

When it tickled the skin on his stomach, he got a flash of you looking up at him. 

You sucked the digit into your mouth, metallic tang on your tastebuds, as you tugged fabric down just enough so his cock would spring free. Thick, hard, mouth-wateringly big. "Missed my cock that much, mmm, pretty girl?"

Bucky whined, hand going lower over the sweats and palming himself through it. 

He slotted himself between your open thighs and rubbed his length up and down the wetness dripping from you, making you moan at the feeling, "Please…"

He felt dirty, and like he was doing something he shouldn't. But no one would know. He was alone for miles and miles, and you were gone checking on your precious Steve.

He palmed himself harder and sucked in a harsh breath through his nose, his hand coming up slightly to go under the sweats and grip himself, his body jolting at the feeling of skin against skin. 

"Let your pretty girl see you…" Another strangled whine left his lips, like it hurt. Like it hurt to feel what he was feeling and be confused as to why, have no outlet for such emotion, not know what to do with the memories.

You lifted you hips and sank back down slowly, little gasps and moans you tried not to let out, coming out anyway.

“I don’t like it when you’re gone.” The words came out muffled against his hand, his thumb tracing your lip again. 

The moan that escaped his lips when he stroked himself at first was broken, like it knocked the wind out of him. He didn't mean to let it out but the imagery got clearer with each movement. 

"Mne ne khochetsya tebya pokidat'." I don't like leaving you.

He stroked again, each slick sound from him fucking his fist reminding him of how you sounded fucking yourself open onto him. 

"Ya ne khochu, chtoby ty ischezla." I don't want you to disappear.

It hurt. It felt good. Tears rimmed his eyes in confusion and overstimulation of all his emotions hitting him at once. The more the knot in his core tightened at the thought of you, the less oxygen he felt existed. 

He stroked, up and down, swiping his thumb across the leaking tip of him, eyes shut tightly trying to remember the feel of your spongy walls wrapping around him, then clenching. 

He moaned your name and stroked faster, a flash of memory showing him how you begged him to let you be on top, metal hand glinting around your throat. 

He squeezed his hand around himself, and as soon as the image of you biting your lower lip and begging him to cum through teary eyes popped in his head, he was done for.

Like releasing a spring that was coiled too tight, the relief was immediate, making a shudder run through his body as hot spurts of cum painted his stomach and some of the sheets around him. 

The next time it happened, it was the wine.

You had gotten back already, and he was looking for something to drink in the fridge, though maybe a bottle of water and a flavor packet that you called Liquid I.V. would be nice, when he saw the bottle out of the corner of his eye. 

The label seemed familiar, familiar enough for a flash of a syringe and a needle to pass by his mind, no other context or explanation. 

When he took the half-sticking-out cork out, the smell of it flooded his nostrils, and another flash appeared. 

Your kiss. 

It was messy, urgent, nothing like the soft kiss he remembered before. This one he could almost taste, wine, lip balm, and, well, what he imagined you tasted like. 

Your eyes squeezed shut at the eerily familiar feel of his lips on you, kissing you open as he held your thighs apart. “Oh, God—“ 

He licked, and sucked, and bit like the solace for his miserable existence could only be found in the oasis between your legs. Squelching was loud in the room already and it only got worse when he put two fingers inside of you. 

"S'tight, baby." 

He groaned in annoyance, his body responding to the memory faster than he could tell his own brain to repress it. 

He took a deep breath, then two, and when it became clear his dick was winning this one, he turned on the balls of his feet and bee lined for the bedroom, hoping to be done before you got out of the shower. 

He paused, however, by the couch. Looking at your sweatshirt, then the door, then the sweatshirt again, until he decided to stop fucking thinking and just grabbed it. 

This time, he did it with the fabric close to his face, where he could turn around and bury his face in it, feel how soft it was and imagine it was the skin between your breasts, imagine your sweet little whimpers in his ear, your hands tangled in his hair tugging it as he grazed the skin with his teeth. 

"If you keep being good maybe I'll give you my cum. Mm? You'd like that wouldn't you?"

"No, I'm not on— please—"

He built rhythm easier this time, the images weren't fractured glass as much as they were reflections off of a river stream now, flowing and fleeting. 

"Feels... so- oh! Good! Good.. So full."

There wasn't a headache anymore, just a throbbing need behind his ribs and low in his spine, shame and want blended so well together he didn't know which was which. 

"Please, don't stop."

His hand stroked faster, up and down his shaft, until it was weeping with need, precum coating his entire fist. Your voice in his head kept echoing, closer, and closer, bringing him to the edge of a precipice he had all intentions of falling from. 

"Too much." You tried to squirm away, but his grip was too strong.

"Never too much, baby."

He bit his own fist as he spilled onto his hand, trying to muffle any sounds coming out of his mouth, but it wasn't much avail. Blood rushing in his ears, he didn't hear you turn off the shower, or open the bathroom door.

You'd recognize his moans in any environment though.

The timbre of his voice when he was close, almost choking on his own groans trying to keep quiet, not knowing you were outside the door listening to it, unaware he was thinking of you. 

The cards were worn.

Soft at the edges, corners bent from too many hands, too many games that were meant to pass time instead of… whatever this was.

"Ha! That's four," You said, scooping the pair of cards from the coffee table and onto your pile. "Are you even trying? Your memory cannot be that bad."

The rain sounded heavy outside, thick drops of water crashing down on the roof, the wind making them thud against the window in harsh pitter-patter patterns that comforted the loneliest souls. 

He sat across from you, elbows resting on his knees, one hand resting on his chin and the other hanging from his lap, the deep crease between his brows making an appearance. His gaze wasn’t on the cards. 

You raised a brow, taking your glass of wine in your hand to take a sip. "Do I have something on my face?"

"You smelled like vanilla."

It was out of context, almost like he was just thinking out loud and not exactly planning on filling you in on what the conversation was in the first place. 

You raised your forearm to your nose, smelling the skin on your wrist, and furrowed your own brows, a chuckle escaping you. "It's the moisturizer, Bucky, I can—"

"And after it was peonies."

Oh?

Oh.

He… remembers. 

"I remembered those nights." Your blood ran cold, you could see his throat bob like he was swallowing words too thick for his tongue. "I remember—" He shut his eyes, both trying to recall and erase the memory of the very first night you were together. 

"Bucky—" You sat up on your knees, making the motion to get a couple inches closer to him, and he moved away the same distance. 

"You cried— fuck— you begged me to stop and I just—" His hands were up in the air, as if keeping space between you would make whatever he did to you less worse. 

"Bucky, please—"

"Why are you kind to me?" His question was almost demanding. Scolding. "After everything I did to you?" His eyes looked into yours, searching your face for answers to a question he didn't have the words to ask. "After I r—"

"Because I liked it." You blurted out. "A deep, twisted, dark part of me wouldn't let the rest of me hate you for it." You sighed, Bucky tilting his head as if nudging you to elaborate. 

You looked everywhere but him, fidgeting with your hands on your lap. "I didn't even last that first night before I… felt things I couldn't name." You picked at the fabric of your pants. "I woke up the next morning feeling hollow that you left. Every night after that I waited for you to come back."

"Why would y—"

"I don't know." You interrupted him, looking into his eyes. "I can't explain why, but every night you didn't come I felt like jumping off of the tallest building I could find." You looked away again, chuckling at how idiotic you thought you sounded. 

"I sound stupid."

You pulled away to get up and walk away, getting as far as having to step over him to find somewhere to bury your shame. 

Bucky wouldn't let you, though. His hand reached up as you were walking over him, pulling you down.

Your knees hit the rug on each side of him with a soft thud, his hands cradling your face and looking for any sign of protest. 

He didn't find any. Would never find any. Not from you. 

You looked into his eyes, watching him watch you, and leaned in, kissing his lips softly.

So softly he'd have thought it was a dream. 

Your lips moved together as if it was the first kidd you'd shared. And technically, it was, no matter how much muscle memory he had of the Asset and you. 

He deepened the kiss and your hips twiched as his hands fell to rest at your side, grinding yourself onto his pelvis, making him groan into your mouth. 

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling it lightly and sighing into him. "I missed you." You breathed against his mouth before he pulled away to kiss down your neck. "Missed you so much I wanted to—"

"M'here." Muffled against your collarbone, hands going under the hem of your ribbed tank top, gripping your waist with a little more want. He reached up to tug the collar of the shirt to the side, giving him more space to lap and kiss at your clevage.

Your hands found the hem of his shirt and tugged it up, his arms extending upwards to help you take it off for him. 

You touched the scars on his shoulder, and he watched you carefully. The sliver of humanity you saw in the Asset the first night he left you undress him coming out now, in full unadultered awe. 

Your lips kissed each old divot of skin, eyes closing at the memory as your hips ground deeper into him, until you felt his hard length straining against his jeans, the seam of it catching just right into your that you felt a zing straight to your clit. 

His hands travelled up your shirt, bringing the fabric up with them, until it was your turn to let him undress you, hair falling behind your back and over one shoulder. 

He looked at you like a man seeing the sun for the first time. 

His pupils were blown with desire and adrenaline flowing through his veins, mouth coming to claim yours in a kiss again. 

A big hand splayed against your back, his hips tilting so he could lay you down on the rug, your hair fanning out around you as he kissed down your jaw, your neck, your sternum.

His hand came to rest around your ribs, thumb dangerously close to the underside if your breast, and then daring to flick the hardened nipple there. 

"Buck—"

He sighed against your skin as he kissed the skin of your torso lower and lower, kissing down the skin of your stomach, "You don't know what it does to me hearing you say my name like this."

He kissed lower and butterflies bloomed in your stomach when his lips brushed the hem of your shorts, eyes flicking up to yours as if asking for permission, or wanting you to beg, he wasn't sure.

He just wanted to hear the sound of your voice for the rest of his life. 

His fingers hooked into the shorts and pulled them down your legs along with your panties, tossing them over the couch. 

Calloused palms rubbed up your legs, squeezing when he got to the top of your thighs, and you sighed as you let them fall open so he could settle his broad chest between your legs. 

He inhaled deeply when he got to be eye level with your core, memories floosing every groove of his brain. 

His tongue licked a long, flat strip up your core and your breath caught in a moan. "Missed your scent." He kissed your clit. "Missed your taste." He groaned. "Without even knowing I was missing it."

He devoured you like a man starved. 

Like he'd forget you all over again if he stopped lapping at your cunt for even a second. 

And the thought of forgetting your face, your sounds, your smell, your taste, the thought of forgetting you was more painful than anything he had endured. 

Bucky alternated between long, deep licks up your core, and quick flicks of his tongue around your clit before sucking the bundle of nerves into his mouth, while his fingers played with your nipples. 

The feel of your thighs squeezing around his head every time you did that was more comforting than any soothing mechanism he'd ever tried. 

His hands pushed your legs open once again, wider, so he could lean down and thrust his tongue in and out of your drooling pussy, making you whine and buck your hips into his face. 

The temperature of the cabin suddenly was a hundred degrees hotter, a sheen coat of sweat over your bare body making you glisten against the firelight. 

Your hands in his hair tugged, until his glistening face was flush with yours in a hungry kiss that had you tasting yourself.

Deft, manicured fingers worked on the buttons and zipper of his jeans, shoving them down awkwardly as your legs were wrapped around his waist, his cock springing free between the two of you. 

You gasped against his lips when it landed against your folds in a wet slap, leaking precum over your stomach, the patch glistening.

God, you missed him. 

His right hand reached for the length of him, lazily rubbing the tip between your folds, collecting slick, and then pumping it slowly to spread it.

He did that torturously slow, almost as if he was giving you time to back out. Decide you were right in the head and wanted nothing to do with him, actually. 

But instead you waited until his tip was notched by your entrance, and pulled him forward with your legs. his forarms bracing against the floow beside your head as his length impaled you on him, stretching you impossibly wide around his cock to the hilt.

The familiar sting made a loud, lewd moan escape your lips and stumble straight into his mouth, his lips open hovering over yours.

His metal hand cradled the top of your head, eyes locking with yours and noticing tears rim your waterline. 

Panic set in his gut mixing with the heat licking up his ribs, and you noticed the way his body stiffened. "I'm okay." You nodded. "Just—" The words getting caught in your throat as his flesh thumb traced your bottom lip. "Missed you. Need you."

You hand gave his ass cheek a firm squeeze, his eyes narrowing at you as his flesh hand reached to hike your ankle up around his waist higher, and he gave the first tentative thrust, eyes locked with yours. 

He pulled out more, and pushed his hips forward again, hitting the sweet spot inside of you that only he could reach. He leaned down, continuing his movements, and kissed down your chest, pulling a nipple into his mouth, swiling his tongue around it. 

The wet noises coming from where your bodies joined were louder than the rain outside now. Your moans getting gradually more high pitched and his groans getting deeper and deeper, as if it hurt to have you like this again. 

"You feel—" a particularly harsh thrust interrupted you. "oh my God! You feel so good, Bucky, please—"

"Dreamt of you—" Another groan. "Dreamt of you every day."

All of his sentences were punctuated by thrusts, the thick drag of his cock inside of you making your skin feel like it was on fire, sweat from you both dripping down onto the rug. 

"Fuck, Bucky—"

"Thought you were in my head." He confessed. "Until I smelled you again— fuck— on the Causeway—" Harsher thrusts, like he was losing himself in the feel of your cunt strangling him. "Knew you had to be real then." And then a needy, higher pitched moan from him. "Knew it had to be you."

You cupped your hands one each side of his face, making him let go of whatever patch of skin he was sucking on, a purple mark being left behind, and made him look at you.

Blue eyes lost is a black pool of lust and need and want. 

"Don't leave me." You pleaded, as he started thrusting hard enough to slap his pelvis against your clit with each thrust. "Please, don't ever leave me again."

He kissed your palm. "Not gonna." Muffled against your hand. "Never gonna let you go."

He strained his neck to capture your lips in a kiss again, feeling your gummy walls spasm around his length, pulsing like you wanted him to fill you up as your orgasm crashed over you and drowned you in him. 

"G'nna, cu-um…" His hips stuttered. "Need t— fuck—" You nodded against him, locking your legs behind his back, making him groan at the thought that you couldn't bear him gone as much as he couldn't bear to be away.

A symphony of passionate moans from you at the overstimulation of not even being over one orgasm and already feeling the coil in your stomach tighten again threw Bucky over the edge.

Hot, thick ropes of cum filled you, your eyes rolled back at the feeling of it, so much that it dripped out of you. 

He slowly stopped his movements, brushing your hair away from your face, kissing everywhere in your flushed chest and cheeks as he came down from his high. 

You tilted his head towards you again. "No more running."

"No more running." He agreed, kissing your palm in earnest.

me writing that smut scene with wet eyes and a wet pussy as always TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK PLEAK!!!!!

It was the lack of oxygen and the burdensome shame the sheer memory of his lips on your body and the weight of his cock in you brought. Each step out of bed and into the bathroom hurt, and you almost didn't recognize the person staring back at you in the mirror.

The bags under your eyes proved sleep wasn't restful, the rat's nest on your head made you remember how his fingers wove right through it while he tugged your head back to find more space to mark your neck.

Speaking of which, the shades of red and purple scattered across your neck and chest, all the way down your hipbones and inner thighs, would've made whoever works at Pantone jealous. 

You traced each mark slowly, memories of their genesis flooding your brain. Each time he kissed, sucked, and bit on the skin of your body as if that would be the only proof of his existence. 

The shower temperature was borderline concerning. As if you could boil and scrub the scent of kevlar and cum away if you tried hard enough. You washed your hair, the scent of bergamot and sandalwood of your shampoo calmed your nerves a little.

You stood under the water until it turned cold. 

Padding to your closet after drying out, you picked a pair of black leggings, black sports bra, a matching athletic jacket to go over and while socks.

The loud noise of the blowdrier wasn't enough to drown out his voice that was still echoing in your head. 

You remember how you fought — and you remember the exact moment your body stopped resisting. The exact moment you begged. The exact moment you said please like it was the only word you knew.

You shouldn’t have liked it. You know that.

But your hips had lifted into his hands, desperate. Your mouth had opened for his tongue without thinking. Your thighs had locked around him like you never wanted him to leave.

And worst of all — the part that made your eyes sting with confused tears — is that even now, remembering all of it…

Your body reacted all over again.

A slow warmth spreads through your stomach, your breath growing shallow, your nipples tighten against the fabric of your sports bra, and it takes every bit of energy you have to finish drying your hair.

The distraction starts small. Easy to hide, at first.

You show up late to breakfast and blame it on oversleeping, even though you were up before most people, sitting on the edge of your bed with the sheets still crumpled beneath you, trying to convince yourself it didn’t happen the way it did.

Your coffee goes cold in your hand. Sam cracks a joke that everyone laughs at — except you. You force a smile when he nudges your shoulder and ask him to repeat it. You’re sure it’s the third time you’ve done that this morning.

By 10 a.m., Nat starts noticing.

She leaned against the gym doorframe while you tried and failed to focus on the punching bag in front of you. You’ve hit it five times in ten minutes. You're sweating for no reason. Your gloves hanging loose around your wrists.

“Okay,” she drawls, arms crossed, “who crawled into your head and forgot to leave?”

You glance at her. Shrug. “What do you mean?”

Nat tilts her head and gives you the most unimpressed look a human face is capable of. “You’ve spaced out in every room you’ve been in today."

You blink at her. Swallow. “Weird dream.”

She perks up immediately. “Oh? That kind of weird?”

You fumble with your gloves. “No—well. I don’t know. Doesn’t matter.”

Nat grins like a shark. “You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“Oh, you definitely are.” She leans in, voice dropping, teasing. “Was he hot?"

Conversation flows and as she walks away, calling over her shoulder that maybe you should get laid for real, just to even out your energy, you stare down at your bruised knuckles and think about how easy it is to lie when the truth sounds insane.

He was back on the rooftop.

Same place. Same time.

But this time, you weren’t the same.

You moved differently now, softer, slower. Like your body didn’t quite trust itself. Like the air in your apartment had grown heavier, thicker — saturated with something you couldn’t name but could feel. And he could feel it too. All the way across the street, down the barrel of a scope he no longer needed.

You weren’t wearing much — you never did after a shower. Just a thin shirt and sleep shorts. Legs bare. But you weren’t humming tonight. Weren’t swaying around your room the way you used to. The lightness in your step was gone.

When you finally stepped out onto the balcony, it made something in his chest hitch. Like seeing a bird that used to sing now just perch in silence.

You leaned against the railing with your wine in one hand, your free arm crossing over your stomach like you needed to hold yourself together. And for a moment — just a moment — you looked out over the skyline and…

You looked up.

Right where he was. Across the way. High up and still in the shadows. Motionless. Mute.

Your eyes scanned the rooftops. You didn’t squint. Didn’t linger.

But you were looking. Not aimlessly, either.

You were looking for him.

And it sent a wave of something cold and electric through his body, like the aftershock of a touch that lingered too long.

He just watched the girl on the balcony wrapped in candlelight and confusion, wearing bruises on her soul and pretending not to miss the man who gave them to her.

Obsession was inefficient. Deviation was dangerous.

The Soldat watched you for three days before the hairs on the back of your neck stood up at his presence again.

He came in as he did last time, through the balcony, quiet footsteps not matching his sheer stature. You were watching TV in the living room this time. 

Well, the television was on and you were staring at it. The movie was supposed to be interesting, some thriller Nat wouldn't shut up about.

All you could think of it was that the main character was way too naive for her own good, almost wanting to be prey to a charming monster who couldn't wait to get his fangs into her and shred her to pieces. 

The bottle of wine sat open on your coffee table since that night, almost mocking you. As if you stared at it long enough, whatever happened would cease to have existed.

You felt like you were floating in your own life, unaware of the figure lurking in the shadows of your apartment, approaching the couch carefully, like he was getting ready to ambush you. 

And he was. 

A hand wrapped in front of your mouth and an arm around your waist, and as if flailing around would do anything, you tried to fight. Again. 

Failing. 

Again. 

After he had you in his grip, he wasn't so quiet with his footsteps, walking back and dragging you to your room. You caught a glimpse of his reflection and for some traitorous reason, your tummy flipped. In a not bad way. 

"Missed you, sweet girl." Damn the timbre of his voice. Damn the way his chest vibrated through the kevlar. Damn the path said vibrations were taking from your back to your core, igniting heat at their destination. 

It became almost routine.

The way he'd grab at you and leave handprints all over your body, to a degree you hated yourself for liking, for indulging in, for craving. 

Hated that you felt heat lick behind your ribs when you felt you weren't alone at night, how your thighs clenched together when the heat of his body was on your back, and how you felt any and all resolve melting away the second his hands were on you. 

No one connected the dots on the Soldat becoming more irritable on the occasion you were away on a mission with Steve when he went inside your apartment.

It wasn't common knowledge that even if you were out, he'd come in and take in every little detail of your home that made it yours.

He'd nuzzle his face into the cashmere scarf hanging in your closet, sniffed your perfume, laid his tired body on your bed and remembered every filthy word he wrung from you on those very sheets. 

Thirty five days of this back and forth was when he first saw a new side of you. Thirty five days being all it took for you to stop fighting against the dark parts of yourself that craved whatever he was willing to give. 

He spent four days away from you, unable to see you, cleaning up some HYDRA mess that shouldn't have been made anyway.

You felt hunger. Settling low in your stomach, heavy, dangerous, and alive. Alive like you hadn't felt in a long time. Alive like how he made you feel in that first night and every single night since.

Your limbs feel like they’ve been unstitched and put back together wrong.

He came back after some douchebag tried to flirt with you in line to get a coffee. That man was missing now. Unrelated. Probably. 

When he tried the handle, though, the balcony door was locked again, and he chuckled to himself, wondering why on earth you had started doing that again. 

It was the same story this time, you were distracted putting lotion on your legs, naked, this time it smelled like peonies and something soft, like clean laundry and bath bubbles. He was quiet, approaching you from behind until you decided to go off script.

"Where were you?"

Oh? You mean… you missed him?

"You didn't show up for days." 

You did. You missed him.

Your voice was small but firm, like you were verbally pouting, and that made something vaguely resembling a smile bloom on his lips. 

You still refused to run and look at him, acting like the Soldat showing up to your apartment was another mundane thing, another routine, a chore to be checked off your list and that lit the fire of challenge inside of him. 

You moved the leg that was propped on the bed back to the floor to walk into your bathroom, but he caught your wrist and turned you around, grabbing your face in one hand and forcing you to look at him. 

You tried to look annoyed, roll your eyes and huff like he was a pesky little fly, like you were a petulant brat. 

Silence hung heavy between you two, thick, loaded, much like everything else about him. Your skin gleamed softly as the bathroom and your bedside lamp lights bounced off of the freshly moisturized patch all over you.

Weeks ago, you'd be clawing at his face for him to get away.

Tonight, being in a thong in front of his very kevlar clad self made your body itch to be touched. 

“You thought I wouldn’t come back?” he asked, tilting his head as if he already knew the answer. 

You huffed again, shifting on your feet. "You didn't come." Your eyes shifted down like the admittion immediately shamed you, and he tugged you lightly to make you look at him again. 

"You waited for me?" It was almost like he didn't believe anyone would, like he didn't force himself into your life and called it good when whatever twisted part of your brain played along with it. 

"You’re predictable.”

That earned you a real reaction — not anger, not dominance — just a subtle narrowing of his eyes, like you’d poked something interesting.

“Predictable?” he echoed.

“You disappear,” you said, ticking it off on your fingers. “You come back. You act like nothing happened. Rinse. Repeat.”

Taunting a super soldier who was a foot taller and about 50% heavier than you was a bold move, he thought. Almost like you were doing reverse psychology on a mentally unstable weapon to get it to give you what you wanted. 

And if it wasn't for the way your nipples hardened, and the smell of your slick he could sense, he might've fallen for the whole stern act. 

He took an extra second to look at you, and pulled your face towards him, making your stand on your tip toes as he leaned down to kiss you. Too softly for him at first, almost like he missed you too.

The Winter Soldier had no such terms for his feelings, though. 

There’s a moment where your brain tries to split itself in two.

Heat licks up your spine before you can stop it, shame and want tangled so tightly you can’t pry them apart. You squeeze your thighs together instinctively, and the ache that follows makes a soft, broken sound escape your throat.

Your hands grabbed at his arms to stabilize yourself, as his tongue pushed inside your mouth like it was marking his territory, again. 

He had no ceremony, really. No… decorum.

His free hand went to the back of your neck, keeping you in place and forcing you to be impossibly close. His other hand mapped you, like the very first night. 

Cold metal fingers dragged from your jaw to your neck, your breast, flicking a nipple between his fingers and making you moan into his mouth. Next, it travelled lower onto your stomach, making goosebumps appear at the change in temperature. 

And last, it found its way into your panties, playing with the hot slick mess drooling out of your cunt. You gasped into his mouth when the cold metal brushed your clit, and he took a couple steps, turning you so he faced your bed and you had your back to it. 

He smirked against your mouth when he felt you pull him slightly, pulling away from his lips and sitting yourself on the bed, hands moving to his belt.

As you fumbled with the metal and fabric, your eyes never left his. A mixture of lust and despair overflowing from your gaze as his metal hand cradled your face, thumb tracing your lip.

As he tugged it down ever so slightly, you opened your mouth, another silent admission of just how metaphorically on your knees you were. As you felt the weight of his thumb on your tongue, your ears perked up at the sound of a metal buckle being undone. 

You sucked the digit into your mouth, metallic tang on your tastebuds, as you tugged fabric down just enough so his cock would spring free. Thick, hard, mouth-wateringly big. 

"Missed my cock that much, mmm, pretty girl?" Fuck him and his smugness. 

You ignored him, just turned your face away to get his thumb out of your mouth and leaned in, pooling the saliva on your tongue and licking him from base to tip, closing your lips around the head.

He groaned from deep in his chest at the velvety feel of you once again, like it pained him just as much to note have come sooner. 

His hand found itself tangled in your hair, keeping an iron grip on it while he let you find you rhythm, bobbing your head up and down his length using your hand to stroke what you couldn't fit.

You took him deeper each time, wet noises from your mouth louder until you gagged around the base of him, only to do it again. Your nails dug into his thighs, pulling him in deeper, and he reveled in the fact that he didn't have to force you into anything anymore. 

Though it was fun while it lasted. 

He pulled you off of him with a pop, nudging himself forward on your bed on his knees while you backed yourself up until you were laid down completely.

His lips were on your neck, then your jaw, as his hand pulled your panties down a bit and went back to its rightful place between your legs, playing with your folds like he liked seeing you suffer, just a little bit. 

You whined at him, bucking your hips forward in an effort to get more, and he bit your jaw lightly in response. He took his hand away, and pulled your panties completely off, flinging them to some corner of the room you didn't care for at the moment. 

He slotted himself between your open thighs and rubbed his length up and down the wetness dripping from you, making you moan at the feeling, "Please…"

It was breathy and faint, as you tried weakly to push him off.

You had a look in your face that screamed desperation, a dark, humiliating longing that won’t die no matter how hard you try to smother it. "Can't stop, angel. You know that." As he notched the tip of him in your entrance, you shook your head.

"Let me be on top… please…" 

The Soldat was… surprised, to say the least.

He didn't know if that's something he'd enjoy, to be perfectly honest. Every single other time he'd been with you was about him being in control, and you being at his mercy, so when confusion flashed across his face, you spoke up again. 

"Wanna make you feel good." Oh, the sweet nectar of your voice did him in then, slowly laying himself back into your pillows while he pulled you on top of him.

The image was almost… funny.

This big scary super spy assassin, dressed in all black and kevlar with smudged camouflage paint around his eyes, contrasting with the soft comforter of your bed, a pastel color some would say is off white and some would call it a very soft pink, with his massive cock out, leaking and wet, just allowing you to please him.

It was the first time he'd heard you let out something that sounded like a soft giggle mixed with a moan, as you settled open on top of him, grinding your pussy onto the length of him. 

As your body searched for purchase still on this realm, you realized you were fucking tired of touching kevlar, every single time. 

Your hands reached for the leather straps on the top of his suit, and his grabbed your wrists at a speed that made you think you did something really wrong. 

Your hips stilled and a beat of silence followed, just heavy breathing to be heard. As his eyes stared at you, nonverbally scolding, you spoke again. 

"Please?" When he hesitated, you continued. "Let your pretty girl see you…"

Another beat of hesitation, and then he slowly released your wrists, letting his hands fall to his sides, while you worked at the buckles and straps slowly. 

You helped him shrug it off once it was undone, and your heart twisted at the same time your pussy did. 

Lines of carved muscle all through his torso, perfectly sculped by years of torture and hard work, a physique that would make Michelangelo proud, thinking David came to life. 

Your eyes fell upon the scars on his shoulder, where metal and skin meshed. It looked like he clawed at it, trying to get it off multiple times, only for it to not work or for the arm to be put back in place. 

Before you could question anything, though, his hands were on your body again, dragging you from the trance back to present time where you were on top of him. 

"Posmotri na menya." Look at me.

And you did. And for the first time since this whole thing started, the look in his eyes felt almost human. Vulnerable.

Your hands cradled his face, and you kissed him, your hips resuming their movements, dragging yourself back and forth over his length, getting him wet in your arousal. 

His hands rested on your hips until one of them urged you up slightly, so the other could notch the tip of his length at your entrance, him groaning and you gasping into his mouth as you sank down on him. 

The sting of this stretch just never got old, it didn't matter how many times he had you, or in which position (though on all fours it was specially breathtaking), it always felt like you were unbearably full of him, surrounded by him, overwhelmed with the sheer space he took in your life in just this. 

As he bottomed out, his flesh hand rested on your face, thumb tracing the apple of your cheek. It was almost… tender. 

You opened you eyes to see him staring right into yours, gaze hazy with lust, and you began to move on top of him. 

You turned your face to nuzzle into his palm, closing your eyes and inhaling the faint scent of gunpowder and CLP that no amount of soap would get rid of.

You lifted you hips and sank back down slowly, little gasps and moans you tried not to let out, coming out anyway.

“I don’t like it when you’re gone.” The words came out muffled against his hand, his thumb tracing your lip again. 

"Mne ne khochetsya tebya pokidat'." I don't like leaving you.

It was almost not there, the wet sounds from where your bodies joined were louder than his words, but you heard it. You understood it. 

His hand dropped a little lower, resting around your neck, using his grip to control the pace, slowly bringing you to the edge and keeping you there until you felt like it had been hours, not letting you go over it just yet. 

"Ya ne khochu, chtoby ty ischezla." I don't want you to disappear. "Fuck— please, please let me— oh!"

It was overwhelming. He was overwhelming. His other hand kneaded your breast, tweaking the nipple, then going lower and gripping your waist like you'd run away from him. 

He leaned forward, tilting your face up so he'd have space to kiss, and nip at your exposed neck. 

The new angle let you rub your clit against his pubic bone and the patch of coarse hair there, sending electric shocks through your spine as he sucked and kissed the side of your neck, your chest, and your jaw. 

"You feel so good you make me forget everything else." You rutted harder against him, whining for more. 

More of him. More of this.

As you clenched around him once again, he groaned into you, the vibration bouncing off of your skin, and his arm wrapped around you, hand gripping you waist and flipping you over to where you laid on your soft bed now, and he was the one rutting into you. 

His left hand held your wrists above your head, pressing them hard into the mattress as he used the same arm to hold himself up by the elbow, driving in and out of you with such force you actually got scooted up the bed a couple of inches.

His right hand reached down and hooked your leg onto his elbow, coming back up again to rest against your pulse point. 

"G'nna cum— fuck, inside—" His words were clipped, strained. 

You nodded as best as you could, floating in a sea of pleasure as the knot in your stomach grew tighter and tighter. "Please, yes, yes, ye— oh God!" the grind of his hips against your clit when he was pushing in and out of you, combined with the feel of being restrained under him and his mouth all over you was enough to have you contracting around him as your orgasm washed over you. 

Wave after wave of pleasure hit you over and over again as he thrusted faster, harder, trying to reach his own pleasure, groaning into your neck as he bit a nice mark on there when he spilled into you. 

He thrusted a few more times to ride it out, the obscene squelch of his cock pushing cum inside of you making your pussy pulse around him, wanting to go again. 

As his thrusts slowed slowed, the only thing that could be heard in your room was your breathing. You looked up at the ceiling trying to find words in your poorly oxygenated brain, a knock on the front door burst your imaginary bubble. 

"You okay in there?" Fucking Steve and being a good friend. 

Every muscle in his body goes still, predator-instinct snapping into place. 

You scramble off the bed, grabbing the first hoodie you can find and yanking it over your head. It swallows you whole, fabric brushing over fresh marks you haven’t even looked at yet. Sleep shorts follow, barely tugged into place as you run a hand through your hair in a useless attempt to look normal.

You yank the door open just a crack at first.

Steve stands there in sweatpants and a grey t-shirt, hair slightly mussed, eyes scanning your face immediately like he’s assessing damage.

“You good?” he asks again, brow furrowing. “You’ve been… jumpy lately.”

You lean casually against the doorframe, forcing your pulse to slow. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t buy it. “You sure? I heard something.”

You shrug. “Dropped something.”

His eyes flick past you, instinctively checking the apartment. You subtly shift to block his view further. “You look flushed,” he says carefully. "And sweaty."

You blink at him. “Steve.”

He tilts his head. “What?”

You sigh dramatically, rubbing your temple like he’s inconvenienced you instead of potentially saving your life.

“I was in the middle of getting myself off.” The silence that follows was louder than any screams the soldat might've tried to muffle at first. “Like. Fully committed. Lights low. Door locked. Very enthusiastic.”

His ears go red first. Then his neck. Then his entire face. “Oh.”

You fold your arms. “Yeah. Oh.”

“I didn’t— I mean— I was just—” He gestures vaguely at you, at the hallway, at existence. “Checking in.”

“Well,” you deadpan, “mission accomplished.”

He coughs, looking anywhere but at you now. The ceiling suddenly becomes fascinating. The floor tile. A microscopic crack in the wall. He nods too many times.

“I can— you can get back to— that.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t want to supervise?” You open the door slightly more knowing THE Captain America would never. 

The Soldat, however, heard that on his way out of your window, and made a mental note to make it painful if he ever had the mission to take out Rogers. 

His head snaps down so fast you’re surprised he doesn’t get whiplash. “Nope. Absolutely not.”

There’s a beat and you almost think it's funny when he misses running into the door frame by half an inch trying to speed walk away from your apartment door. 

Once you locked the door again, you realized he'd left, and it all felt cold again. 

The air feels wrong before he even touches the balcony.

He lands in silence, boots barely whispering against the concrete, body low out of instinct. The rhythm is off. The hum beneath the quiet isn’t yours.

Your curtains are drawn tighter than usual, but the light is still on. He can see the faint shift of your shadow moving inside. You’re home. Alone.

There’s a frequency he doesn’t recognize — thin, high, artificial. Not your television. Not your laptop. Something else.

Bugged.

He doesn’t test the lock. Doesn’t try to disarm anything. He steps back instead, scanning the exterior wall with his eyes alone.

Sloppy placement.

He steps backward into shadow, withdrawing from the door entirely. Inside, he hears your footsteps cross the living room. Soft. Unhurried. A faint hum of a tune you had stuck in your head. The sound hits him in the chest in a way he refuses to examine.

If this were a trap, this would be how it looked. Routine. Familiar. Lure him in.

So he retreats, and in the next few days he observes you from a distance. Always there like a shadow you can feel but never see, never be sure if he's actually there or if he's a figment of your imagination. 

He watches you move through the apartment. You check your phone. Toss it aside. Pace once. Twice. Then sit on the edge of your bed and stare at nothing.

Watches you pathetically try to get yourself off like before, except this time it doesn't work, since he's Pavlov-ed your twisted little mind into needing him for it. 

There’s a sharpness to your movements at first — determination. Stubborn pride. Like you're trying to prove something to yourself. Then there's defeat, and frustrated tears he wishes he could lick.

He even caught you being more and more reckless in missions, having to step in and save you, but leaving before anyone, inclusing you, realizes its not your luck, its him. 

He tells himself this is tactical, asset preservation. Containment.

If someone else planted those bugs, then you are a vulnerability, and vulnerabilities must be controlled.

The apartment feels larger without him.

Too clean.

Too quiet.

The balcony door stays locked now, not because you’re afraid of him coming in — but because you’re afraid he won’t.

You catch yourself listening for the soft shift of weight on the railing. For the almost-imperceptible click of the door handle. For that drop in air pressure that always came a second before his hands did.

It never happens.

Sleep turns shallow and mean. You wake up reaching for a warmth that isn’t there. You stand in the kitchen too long staring at nothing. You snap at Sam over nothing. You glare at Steve when he asks if you’re okay.

You’re irritable in the way a wound gets irritated — raw, exposed, angry at being touched.

Nat doesn’t say anything at first, just watches the way you push harder in training. The way you don’t pull your punches anymore. The way you volunteer for front positions on missions that used to make you strategic.

You stop waiting for backup.

You clear rooms first.

You draw fire on purpose.

Deep in a little twisted part of your brain, there's hope, stupidity, or… love? Screaming at you "If I’m in danger, he’ll come." It's not a conscious or rational thought, but rational left you months ago. 

Every time you take a hit that should’ve been fatal — every time you walk away from something you shouldn’t have — his jaw tightens a fraction more.

It lasts about three weeks, and then someone notices you have a very diligent guardian angel. And suddendly, he's in the wiping chair again. 

By the time you reach the causeway, you’re running on fumes and denial.

The wind is sharp, cutting across open asphalt and abandoned cars like knives. Steve is ahead of you. Nat and Sam are flanking. And when you catch ocean blue eyes staring at you from behind a muzzle much too familiar, they're empty.

It's not familiar to him. You're a stranger. A mission. An obstacle he needs to neutralize. 

In any other circumstance, that would be normal. The suit was thick, you were moving around, except this time you were in the middle of Siberia and the vents in the base hadn't worked for a long time, so it was pretty much freezing as much inside as it was out, save for the wind. 

It started almost imperceptible, like a predator ambushing a prey. You walked behind Bucky like you couldn't feel the sweat under the layers of kevlar you had on, like the scent of his detergent and just his skin weren't enough to make the space between your thighs slick. 

You took your gloves off while Buck's eyes stayed facing ahead, making sure neither of you would get caus by surprise by anything else. Wiping your hands down on your thigh you could feel how hot and sweaty they were, you felt like your clothes were suffocating you from the inside out, like your skin didn't fit quite right. 

The thing is—you didn’t feel sick. Not dizzy. Not nauseous. Your vision was mostly clear, your steps steady. But your heartbeat felt louder than usual. Like your pulse was pressed to the inside of your lips, your fingers, between your legs. You shifted again, trying to ignore it.

Bucky glanced over as he secured the last of the drive cores. “You okay?”

You nodded too fast. “Fine. Just... warm.”

He tilted his head slightly, squinting at you. His eyes did that thing they always did—soft and curious, like he was seeing something you didn’t want him to. “You sure?”

You forced a smile, shoulders tightening. “Let’s get out of here before the storm, please.”

As if God and everything holy decided to mock you, you did not make it before the storm. So both of you were forced to hike up to an old safehouse form his cold war days. The trek was brutal, snow high on your legs, but the cold felt good agasint your skin, relieving it even if it was barely there. 

You unzipped your suit halfway. Then halfway again. Bucky’s eyes flicked toward you for a split second, then away.

You thought maybe it was just adrenaline. Mission high. You told yourself it was nothing.

But your skin was too sensitive. Your breath wouldn’t stay even. You were aching, and not the kind that came from bruises or sore muscles. This ache was low. Hungry. Electric. And no matter how you shifted or clenched your fists or dug your fingernails into your palms, it wouldn’t go away.

When you arrived he went straight to starting the generator, snow still in his hair. You didn’t say anything when he offered you a protein bar. You just shook your head and stared out the window, trying not to cry from how badly you needed to be touched.

You didn’t tell him that your underwear was already damp. That your thighs were starting to tremble. That your body was responding to something it didn’t understand, something it didn’t choose. That you were scared.

He shifted in place in front of you. “Y/N,” he said softly. “Talk to me.”

Your eyes stayed on the floor. “I think something’s wrong.”

There was a pause. “Physically?” You nodded, throat bobbing when you gulped.

Bucky didn’t speak again. You could feel him watching you, waiting. That unbearable patience of his. That calm. That strength. You wanted to claw it off him and beg him to fix it.

The sweat hadn't stopped. The ache was worse now. Your body felt like it was vibrating from something deeper. Something blooming. Something curling beneath your skin and between your legs, turning your nerves into live wires and everything else into water that would amplify your charge.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. If you opened your mouth, you might’ve begged him to carry you. Might’ve begged him to touch you.

You moved to sit on the edge of the couch, hands clenched between your knees. You could feel him watching you. Again.

“Still warm?” he asked gently. You nodded, he stood in front of you, hand on your forehead to feel for the temperature, not knowing that looking up at him like that was feeding all sorts of obscenities that HR would not like you to indulge in. “You’re burning up.”

“I’m just tired.”

“No, you’re not.” You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Bucky knelt in front of you, voice quiet. “What’s going on, Y/N?”

Your vision blurred slightly. “I think it’s getting worse.” You turned your face away. “It’s like… I can’t think straight. I can’t cool off. And everything feels like—like too much. My skin, my heartbeat. You.”

The last word escaped before you could catch it.

Both of you froze for a moment, and in the spirit of not making it harder — for either of you in every sense of the word — he pretended he didn't hear it. “You should sleep,” he murmured. “If you can.”

The storm hit harder after nightfall. Wind howled against the cabin, rattling the old windows in their frames. Snow piled up fast outside, burying any chance of leaving until sunrise.

Bucky made sure the fire was steady, the doors locked, everything secured. You hovered near the bedroom doorway, clutching the blanket he’d tossed you without meeting his eyes.

He was able to count every ridge on the wood ceiling twice, he thinks. He's been staring at it like it would grant his wish of going deaf right at this moment, or an asteroid landing on top of the cabin, anything, really, so he wouldn't be able to hear you crying in the small bedroom behind walls that were much too shitty to hold back any sound.

He watched you earlier form his place on the couch, going back and forth between the bedroom and the small bathroom, frustrated huffs coming out of your mouth each time. 

An hour later, he felt the breeze of what he could assume was the window you opened to get some relief from the burning feeling of your blood boiling in your veins. 

Now he was being forced to listen to you try to touch yourself into a cure that wasn't coming, and neither were you. At first, it was just shifting. Sheets rustling. The kind of restlessness that could be chalked up to discomfort or cold.

A soft exhale, almost like you were trying to choke down a whine while holding your breath too long. He heard you let out a frustrated and more breathless huff, like you tried even harder and couldn't.

He pictured you on the bed—hips grinding down into your own hand, trying not to cry out from the tension curled inside of you. Sweat-dampened sheets, flushed cheeks, maybe even a pillow clenched between your teeth.

And then he heard his name.

And his entire body perked up like a dog hearing T-R-E-A-T. In no time he was by the door, knocking softly, "You okay?"

"It's getting worse." He didn’t ask what it was. He knew. He always knew, didn’t he? Those compounds were never designed to be kind. They were engineered to torment. To make relief impossible without another person. Without skin-on-skin. Without someone who could anchor you back into your body.

"Bucky, please." Your voice was muffled by the door but it didn't make it any harder for his cock to start to stand attention to you, like you were a siren he was being lured towards. "It hurts so bad."

His hands hesitated on the doorknob, like he didn't trust himself to see you and not give into it, even though he forced himself to believe this was all the compound talking. 

He should walk away, should go outside, bury himself in snow and hope the cold froze whatever heat was crawling into his spine. But instead, he exhaled shakily and turned the knob. The door creaked open just an inch. Not enough to enter—just enough to look.

And fuck.

You were curled up on the bed, facing the wall, your body shaking in tiny, involuntary tremors. The blanket was tangled around your waist, shirt hitched just slightly, one hand pressed between your thighs, the other clenched tightly in the sheets. You were flushed—too flushed—and your eyes, when you turned to look at him, were glassy with unshed tears and sheer need.

“I don't know what's going on,” you whispered again, voice cracking. “I can’t—Bucky, I’ve tried—”

“I know,” he said, barely more than a breath. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him. “I heard you.” You looked away, shame painting your face in shades of crimson like a bruise. But he didn’t let you turn far.

“Hey,” he said, softly, coming closer. “Don’t hide. Not from me.”

Your lip trembled. “I can’t make it stop. I can’t even—” You let out a bitter, embarrassed laugh that broke off into something like a sob. “It won’t let me. My body—”

“—wants what it was drugged to want,” he finished quietly. "C'mere, lets try a cold bath, okay?"

That got the faintest smile out of you. But it didn’t last. Your hand twitched where it rested on your stomach, and he could see the way your thighs rubbed together instinctively, trying to create friction. Still trying to fix it on your own.

You couldn't look at him. Not when every cell in your body was screaming touch me. Not when the scent of him—clean and masculine and maddening—was clinging to your senses worse than the compound itself.

You nod, unable to speak. Anything is better than this.

You barely remember getting to the tub. You remember the way your skin prickled as he poured in bucket after bucket of snow melt, watching it fog in the cold air before settling into a frost-laced pool. You remember the way your hands shook as you stripped down before he could avoid looking, too weak to feel shame.

You eased yourself in slowly. The cold bites at first, like a thousand pins in your legs, up your spine. Your breath catches on a gasp as the chill wraps around your thighs, your hips, your chest.

Then, you felt relief. A long sigh left your lips as you settled down in it, knees tucked close to your chest and your cheek resting on one knee, while you faced Bucky, who was sitting outside of the tub on the bath mat, across from you. 

The burn under your skin dulls. Not gone, but numbed. Your lungs expand fully for the first time in hours.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, tilting your head back. “It’s working.”

“You scared me,” he says softly.

Your eyes open. “Yeah?”

“Don’t like feeling helpless.” He swallows. “Especially not when it’s you.”

“I’m okay right now,” you whisper. “I swear.” His head finally turns. His eyes land on your face—not your body, not the waterline, just your face—and there’s a warmth there that makes your heart hurt.

“I know,” he murmurs. “Just don’t want to leave you alone.”

You smile faintly. “You never have to.”

You stood like that until most of the snow melted around you, and little by little, you felt the heat come back with a vengeance, making you lightheaded. It bloomed slow, syrupy, underneath your skin, spreading out from your core and licking up your ribs like fire under ice. You sucked in a breath and blinked, thinking maybe you imagined it.

Your fingertips tingled. Your thighs pressed together out of instinct. The cold was no longer a balm. It was a barrier, one your body was suddenly desperate to break.

Bucky noticed right away. “Hey,” he said gently, leaning in. “Talk to me.”

You shook your head, eyes closing, a soft whimper escaping before you could swallow it down. “It’s—it’s coming back.”

“Don’t move,” he said, already reaching for the metal bucket, already halfway across the room to scoop more snow from the container near the door. “We’ll cool it down again—just stay in the bath—”

“Bucky…” Your voice broke. “It’s not the cold. It’s me. I can’t fight it anymore.” You were curled tighter now, shivering not from the temperature but from how hard your muscles were straining to stay still. Your lips were parted. Your eyes glassy.

And he’d never seen anything so painful. Or beautiful.

You let your forehead rest against your knee, panting softly. “It’s like my skin hurts. Like it knows what it wants and it’s just—punishing me for not having it.”

He was a blur of movement and then he was kneeling bside the tub, hand cupping your face and seeing that, indeed, your temperature rose again. He looked at your face for other signs of distress, trying not to get distracted by the dazed look on your face that he would only liken to cockdrunk, which you weren't, hence the fever. 

You studied his face, the furrow between his brows, sheer proof that he was worried about you, the concerned look in his eyes, his pink lips. You had been fighting your feelings for him for so long, and the compound tired you out enough that you didn't want to do it anymore.

You leaned forward fast, water splashing around as you sat up on your knees to kiss him, sighing into his mouth as you felt every nerve ending in your body weeping with joy, and other parts of you weeping for other reasons. 

“I need you,” you gasp between kisses, “please, Bucky—need you so bad—”

He broke the kiss but didn't pull away, your lips finding his jaw and nipping at the skin there. "This isn't you." He groaned out. 

"Yes, it is." You were gasping now, your body having a taste of what it needed. "I wanted you for so long, Buck, it's not— it's not whatever this is." He tried to have restraint, he really fucking did. 

But you pulled away enough to look at him with pleading teary eyes and said “I need you to fuck me,” and whine tore from your throat. “Please.”

He growls—actually growls—and the sound rips out of his throat like something primal, before his hand grabs your jaw and he finally kisses you.

It’s not gentle. It’s not soft.

It’s all teeth and breath and soaked fabric, and your mouth parts for him instantly, greedy and aching. His tongue swirls inside your mouth and his hands find your waist at the same time yours found his shoulder, looking for stability as you scrambled out of the tub and onto his lap on the tile floor against the wall.

Rough warm hands roam all over your skin, stopping at the supple skin of your ass to knead it, his lips moving against yours like he’s been dying for the taste while you rocked back and forth on top of him, making a wet spot in the front of his pants. 

"Bucky, please…"

“I know,” he grits out, forehead pressed against yours. His breath is hot and ragged against your lips. “Fuck, I know, baby. I can feel it on you—smell it on your skin—I’ve been going crazy—”

You grabbed his right wrist and shifted his hand from your ass cheek to between your legs, gasping into his mouth when his index and middle finger started to spread your lips and toy with your wetness. 

"She's already so puffy f'me, angel— fuck— haven't even used her yet." Your hips jerked forward helplessly, grinding down on his hand like your body didn’t even want to wait for him to move. He swallowed hard, eyes locked on your face as you shuddered against him.

“I tried,” you whisper, voice wrecked, shaky. “That’s why. I’m— She’s all—puffy—because I tried so hard to come on my own.”

Then he laughs—low and dangerous, the kind of sound that sends a fresh flood of heat right to your core. His hand slips between your legs, fingers gliding through your slick, gathering it like proof.

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your clit just light enough to make you whimper.

“You poor thing,” he coos, mock-pitying, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw. “Tried and tried and couldn’t get off with those little fingers, huh?”

“Yeah,” he says, a smug edge curling into his voice. “I can feel it. She’s been working overtime trying to get there.”

You sob against his neck. “I needed you—”

“I know you did,” he whispers, kissing your temple now, impossibly tender even as his fingers keep moving. “You lay in bed all hot and sweaty, thinking of me? Playing with my pussy like it’s yours?”

Your head drops back as your hips grind harder into his hand. “She is yours—Bucky—she needs you—”

“Damn right she does,” he growls.

“Buck—” Your voice broke, and your nails dug into his shoulder, “don’t stop—please don’t stop—”

“I’m not,” he breathed, and he wasn’t sure if it was a promise or a surrender. Maybe both. “I’m right here. I’m not fucking going anywhere.”

“I can’t slow down, it hurts—I hurt—please—Bucky, please, I need more, I need—” You cut yourself off with a moan when he plunged both of his fingers inside of you, flicking his wrist in time with your hips so you were effectively riding his hand now. 

“You’re not ready,” he growled, though his own voice was frayed, trembling. “You’re so fucking tight, baby, I can feel it—if I put anything more than a couple fingers in you right now, you’ll break.”

“I don’t care,” you begged, rocking helplessly against him. “I want you to break me.” You whined again, riding his hand harder and his palm came to cup you, grinding the rough surface againts your clit. 

"Then let her cum for me once, hmmm?" His lips suckled on the skin of your tits, "Make a mess on my hands, y'can do it." He bit onto your neck and curled his fingers in a "come here" motion, scratching the itch deep inside you gummy walls, making your vision go blurry and your body clamp around his fingers. 

“…there you go,” he whispers, trying to catch his breath. “Just like that. That’s it, sweetheart.”

You melt into him, boneless, weight slumping against his chest. His hands stroke your back, your hips, your sides — grounding you in tiny, careful touches like he’s afraid to break you.

It was enough relief for maybe a minute, and when you cuold both feel the heat creeping up your muscles again, slow at first, sliding up your thighs like a tide returning to shore.

The second your body tenses in his lap he adjusts his grip. One arm slides under your thighs, the other around your back. He rises in one smooth motion, holding you like you’re something precious and breakable, even though you’re melting against him like wax.

The cabin creaks with wind as he walks, your skin still damp and glistening, his shirt clinging to your body where it touches. Every step makes you whimper softly. He lets you bounce down on the bed softly. Your legs fall open slightly with the shift in position, and his breath stutters.

You paw at his torso to take his shirt off, and he does that for you. All warm skin, carved muscle and taut want to finish burning you up. 

He crawls over you until he's at eye level, looking at the moonlight coming through the curtains and reflecting off of your eyes like that was all it was ever made to do. He kissed, nibbled, bit, and sucked his way down you neck, your clavicle, the valley of your breasts and each stiff peak of your nipples. 

He licked a hot strip down your stomach and tugged at the skin where your thigh met your torso with his teeth. “I’ve wanted you for so long,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “But not like this. Not when you’re hurting.”

“I’m not,” you say softly. “Not when you’re touching me.”

He breathes in slow against your skin like he’s trying to calm himself—like the scent of you is both a balm and a threat. Your thighs twitch around him when his stubble grazes too close to where you’re aching, and your fingers tighten in the quilt beneath you.

“I can feel it in you,” he whispers, voice rasping low as his fingers brush gently over your hip. “You’re holding so much back.”

“I can’t anymore,” you say, breath shuddering. “Please don’t make me.”

He looks up at you—face flushed, lips parted, chest heaving—and something breaks. Whatever part of him was still trying to ration this, to survive it without taking too much—gone.

His next words don't come out verbally, instead he spells every letter agasint your needy cunt with his tongue, circling your clit and sucking it in his mouth, then thrusting his tongue in again, enough to make the knot inside of your stomach tighter and tighter each time. 

He groans low into you—like he’s tasting sin and salvation in the same breath. His hands grip your thighs tighter, holding you open for him as he licks deeper, slow and devastating. You cry out, fingers diving into his hair, hips already lifting off the bed, needing more.

“Easy,” he rasps against your skin, voice trembling with the kind of restraint that’s killing him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

"I feel—" Another moan ripped right through you as a shock of pleasure sent goosebumps all over your body. "I feel like I can't breathe." You gulped down at the feeling of him pushing his face further into your pussy, but your mouth was still dry, unlike the rest of you.

"Gonna get her all swollen for me, baby." He licked a long strip up your slit and circled your clit again at the same time he pungled two metal fingers in, the coolness of the vibranium helping to push the fever down. "You'll see."

Your thighs shake around him. Your breath stutters. Your fingers go numb from how tightly you’re gripping him. “Bucky—” you choke, voice breaking on his name. "Fuck, I— I—oh, my god!"

He already knew exactly where that spot was inside of you, all he needed to really do was get the cool metal to rub on it for a few seconds and you were soaking the bottom half of his face in slick. 

Your body bows like it’s trying to escape him—no, not escape, surrender. You can’t hold still. You’re shaking all over, thighs trembling, chest rising and falling so fast it feels like your lungs forgot how to work.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until your vision blurs. Until you feel his voice vibrate through you again, a low groan of approval, of possession.

He kissed his way up just as he did down, kissing you when he got to your mouth, making you taste yourself on his tongue, your clammy body sticking to his as he settled on top of you between your thighs.

He pulled away to nip at your jaw and neck, "Good girl." and as soon as the damn words came out of your mouth, it all restarted. Your hands grabbed at his pants like the damn thing called your mom names, popping off the button and pulling the zipper down.

He helped you help him shrug the inconvenient piece of clothing down his legs so he could kick them off. Your thighs twitched involuntarily when you saw the length of him spring free. Thick, long, it made your mouth water and your pussy throb "fuck me" in Morse code. 

Your skin was beaded with sweat. Your hands trembling where they rested on the sheets, and there was a low, helpless noise building in your throat—half frustration, half plea. You blinked rapidly, trying to clear the haze, but it was already creeping back in.

“I need you inside me.” His breath catches.

You reach for him, one hand on his shoulder and the other on the back of his neck, tugging him closer, your voice breaking with something between tears and lust. “Buck, please, I need you to fuck me.”

Your hips roll beneath him instinctively as he leans over you again, a helpless grind that makes both of you gasp. You’re soaked. Open. Ready. Already pulsing from the inside out. For a second, all you hear is the wind howling against the cabin, the sound of the storm still raging outside.

Then his hand was back between your thighs, gathering slick and a low moan from you to coat his cock with. He stroked himself once, twice, then teased the head up and down your slit.

Just as your mouth opened to complain he was taking too damn long, he pushed in. The whole. Nine. Inches. "God, yes—"

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel so—so good, baby. You don’t even know.”

The way he says it makes your stomach flip. You turn your head just enough to see his face—flushed, eyes wild, mouth parted like he’s struggling to stay human inside this kind of want, and you are too. 

His hand slides under your thigh, hitching your leg higher, and the change in angle nearly breaks you. A helpless moan tears from your throat before you can bite it back.

“Yeah?” he rasps, breath hitched. “Right there?”

You nod—frantic, gasping—and your hips move without thinking, chasing that friction, desperate for more, for everything. 

His hips roll deeper now, slow but relentless, each thrust hitting that spot inside you that makes your whole body tighten. You’re already too close again—everything too much, too hot, too sharp. You whimper beneath him, legs trembling as you cling to his shoulders like they’re the only thing keeping you grounded.

“Sweetheart,” he groans against your mouth, his forehead pressed to yours. “You feel so good wrapped around me—so fucking tight—"

“You hear that?” he murmurs, voice thick with heat as his hand slides between your bodies, thumb circling where you’re swollen and desperate. “That’s you. That’s how wet you are. Fuckin’ soaked for me.”

You cry out—sharp and broken—hips jerking against his.

“That’s it,” he growls, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “Ride it. C’mon, sweetheart, I can feel you shaking—she’s gettin’ close again, isn’t she?”

“Yes—god—yes, don’t stop—”

“I won’t,” he promises, voice dark and hungry. “Gonna make you come again. Gonna have you milking my cock like you need it. You do, don’t you?” He hiked your leg higher and leaned further, putting you in a mating press that would have your hip flexor crying tomorrow. 

You nod frantically, tears in your lashes, overwhelmed while his pelvis rubs agasint your clit. “I need it—I need you—I need everything, please—please—”

“You’ve got me,” he breathes, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You’ve got me. Now come for me again, baby. Be good and let go for me.”

His pace doesn’t falter—deep, perfect, almost punishing. His thumb presses tighter, circles faster, and it tips you over the edge with brutal, blinding force.

You sob his name—his real name—as the orgasm crashes through you. Your entire body goes taut, your thighs clamp around his torso, your mouth open on a cry you can’t swallow down.

And he watches you fall apart with awe and wrecked hunger in his eyes. “That’s it, baby,” he groans, hips stuttering against yours now. “That’s it, just like that—so fuckin’ beautiful when you come for me—fuck.”

You could feel he was close. Fuck, your brain was mush at that point, if not for the fever and the compound, the supersoldier that was pistoring his hips into yours like you'd die without it. And to be honest, you probably would, at this point. 

“Don’t stop,” you gasp, leaning your head up so you could bite at his chin and the salt and pepper there, every ragged breath of his on your face. “Bucky, please—don’t stop—don’t pull out—please, I want you to come inside.”

His eyes squeeze shut. His entire body jerks like your words hit him harder than anything else. "Need you to fill me up, Buck."

He groans loudly. "Yeah?" And thrusts harder. "This pussy needs me to make her all sticky with my cum? Mmm?"

You nodded franctically, beggin, pleading.

And what kind of man would James Buchanan Barnes be if he didn't just give it to you?

You feel it before you hear it—the way his body seizes, the way his grip on your waist tightens like a vice, the way his mouth drops open on a strangled groan right into your neck as he pumps you so full of cum that it leaks out of you while he's still inside, ring of white at the base of his cock. 

He collapses over you slowly, bracing his forearm beside your head, but he doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t even try to.

Your legs are still wrapped around his waist, trembling. Your hands stay tangled in his hair. You’re both breathing hard—gasps, really—and your skin is slick with sweat, your pulse thudding against his where your chests touch.

He nuzzles into your neck, still inside, still throbbing, his voice cracked and low.

“Shit,” he breathes.

Your fingers rake softly through the short hair at the nape of his neck. “It’s okay,” you whisper, voice hoarse. “You didn’t hurt me.”

“That’s not why I’m—” He stops himself. Swallows. His lips graze your skin. “I’ve just never… had someone like that before.”

You smile faintly, even through the haze. “You’ve never had someone beg you to breed them like a feral animal in heat?”

He huffs out a breath that’s half groan, half laugh, but his eyes flicker up to yours.

“You were serious, weren’t you?” he says, quiet now. “About… needing it. Needing me. That way.”

You nodded sheepishly, the primal need in you giving space to clarity. “I wanted you before. I still want you now. And I—I didn’t want it to stop. Even when it hurt.”

He cups your jaw with one hand, thumb stroking your cheek. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“I know.” You sighed, "I'm sorry."

“I’ve never seen you like that. Never seen anyone like that.” His brows furrow, and his voice drops even lower. “I would’ve done anything to take the pain away. I still would.”

“You did,” you whisper. He looks at you like he doesn’t believe it. You tighten your arms around him. “You took it away, Bucky. You made it quiet.” There’s a long silence, full of his breath against your neck, your fingers drawing slow circles on his back.

Then you murmur, “You can move now… if you want.” He shifts his hips just slightly, still buried deep—and both of you moan.

His head drops again. “Fuck no,” he mutters. “You think I’m going anywhere after that?”

a/n: don't ask me what kind of demon possessed me, I was writing the pussyjob scene for clean, got horny, and decided to keep the momentum going, for the love of all that is holy PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK!!!!!!

You were sweeping the lower lab levels when the comms crackled.“Oh wow, this stuff is so old.”

You groaned. “That sounded like the voice of a man about to do something stupid. Joaquin, do not—” And then you heard Bucky choke, cough, and groan like he was about to twist Joaquin's neck like an old farmer would do to a chicken before dinner.

You jogged around the corner, footsteps echoing in the old no-so-sterile halls, and met up with both of them bumping straight into Bucky's chest in the process, making him grunt at the impact.

"Oh, hi." You smiled at him like you always did: sweetly, kindly, like you weren't trying to hide the fact that you'd rearrange the tiles on every subway station in New York if he asked you to. "You guys okay?"

Joaquin shrugged and nodded, "Just got some old school glitter all over grandpa." 

Bucky gave you a breathy "yeah, all good." before all of you nodded your heads in agreement and moved along.

You got to another wing of the old base, and the three of you got stopped by a heavy reinforced door preventing you from moving further into the hallway. “You gotta be kidding me,” Joaquin sighed, smacking the reader with the heel of his palm.

You leaned in to inspect it, raising a brow. “Looks like the power line’s fried in this section. We’ll have to backtrack through—” You didn’t finish, because Bucky swayed out of the corner of your eye.

Not dramatically, not theatrically, just enough that your hand shot out, instinctively catching his elbow. “Woah, hey,” you blinked up at him. “You good?” He didn’t answer.

His jaw flexed, teeth grinding. His breath came sharp, deeper, as if the air had suddenly gotten heavier around him. His pupils were… wide. Obscenely, almost. Swallowing the blue.

Joaquin noticed too. “…Uh. Sarge?”

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut. Once. Twice. Like he was trying to blink something back into order.

“I said I’m fine,” he rasped, voice low and not fine at all. But his shoulders trembled, he felt the fabric of his shirt start to cling to him like he’d just stepped out of a sauna, the collar of the tac vest becoming chafy and uncomfortable.

You felt heat radiating off him—like his skin was cooking under the surface. Bucky inhaled sharply, not a normal breath, a slow, wrecking, deep inhale, eyes closing as he tumbled back, bracing himself on the wall.

“…Buck?” Your voice came out softer this time. You could see the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, and the way his eyes were having a hard time focusing. His head lolled from side to side against the cold steel wall until you steadied his face to look at you. "Hey, talk to me."

"I feel—" He couldn't get words to come out, the throughts were there but his tongue felt heavy, like it wanted to give away secrets his brain hadn't allowed it to."I think I'm sick." And God, the way that you took a glove off and put the back of your hand to his forehead just barely helped relieve the heat his body was producing. 

Heat that went up a degree or two when you touched your cheek to his forehead, and he inhaled the sweet scent of your skin. Nothing perfume-like, or lotion, just… you, right at the space where your neck met your shoulder, like the smell of you had hooked him by the throat and reeled him in.

"You're burning up." He felt a whine bubble in his throat when you pulled away to talk to Joaquin. "What exactly was in that lab?"

“…Okay. So remember that old glitter? Could’ve been, uh—bio-aerosol? Or something from that weird Cold War pheromone vault section?” It was almost cartoonish the way Joaquin's face formed into a wince. A very "we're so fucked and he's gonna kill me" wince. 

You stared. “You mean sex pollen.”

“…I did not want to be the guy to say that out loud.” Both of you turned your heads to the sound behind you, not quite a growl, or a moan, but something animal and hurt.

"Okay, how long do we have?" Your mind was going a mile a minute. "Is he gonna die before we get back?" You walked back to crouch in front of Bucky, looking for his eyes with yours. “Hey,” you murmured, guiding his gaze back to you, “look at me.”

His breathing stuttered. “You shouldn’t—” he croaked, voice shredded raw. “I don’t—this isn’t—”

“I know,” you whispered. "Can you hang on until we get to the jet? Bruce and Tony must have something that can help." All you got back was a nod.

After talking the long way out, you managed to get back to the team, Steve's face like a worried mother hen when he saw the three of you, Bucky insisting on walking on his own, telling Joaquin to stand between the two of you. 

Steve jogged down immediately. “What the hell happened?”

Bucky jerked back like Steve reaching for him was a knife being drawn. “Don’t,” he bit out—voice shredded, almost unrecognizable.

“Why do you look like you’re about to pounce on something?”

Steve pulled his hand back, palms up, tone softening instantly. “Okay. Okay. Not touching you. Just talk to me.” Joaquin stepped forward like he was testifying in court.

“So—fun story—turns out Cold War Russia kept, um… let’s call it biologically weaponized pheromone particulate in some of the older R&D labs and—”

Sam blinked, looked directly at Bucky, then you, then right back to Joaquin when he almost couldn't contain his laughter. “So he just inhaled airborne horny juice.”

Steve’s face did every emotion at once. Concern. Fear. Confusion. A level of Catholic repression so strong it could’ve powered a city. While Sam just exhaled through his nose like someone who was seconds away from clocking out of reality.

Your body went still.

"I just— I need to lie down, and—" You reached out to help him onto the jet, but his hand shot our making you jump back. "Don't—" He sighed, trying to level his voice. "Just stay away from me."

You'd be lying if you said that didn't hurt a little. Like having the guy you've been pining over for the past two years tell you to buzz off didn't sting like lemon and rock salt on an open wound. 

Okay, it hurt a lot. 

It was visible the way that you retreated back into yourself, like it would protect you somehow. "Copy that." 

Steve’s jaw ticked, Sam looked down like he suddenly found the floor very, very interesting, Joaquin winced like he’d just watched someone get smacked with a folding chair.

“Wait—” His voice cracked, caught in his throat. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” you said quickly. Too quickly. The verbal equivalent of throwing a sheet over a shattered glass and calling it clean. “We need to get you stabilized. That’s all that matters.”

“No. Don’t—don’t do that.”

You swallowed. “Do what?”

“That.” His eyes held yours, unsteady, and almost pleading. “That look. Like I pushed you into traffic.”

Steve took one step forward, voice gentle. “Buck, she’s just giving you space—”

“I don’t want space,” Bucky snapped. "I want—" Another wave of whatever the compound was hit him, and he doubled over in pain. Steve helped brace him and held a hand out to stop you when you instinctively stepped forward to help. 

“Let’s get him on the cot,” Steve murmured to Sam and Joaquin, gentle, smooth, easing into triage leadership. 

Sam mumbled to Steve on the way there. “We gotta get him to the medbay before his bloodstream goes full Discovery Channel.”

The flight home was torture in slow motion.

Bucky sat hunched forward on the med-cot, elbows braced against his knees, hands fisting and unfisting like he was holding on to the last thread of himself. Every breath shook. Every exhale came rough, uneven, punched through clenched teeth. The fever didn’t just burn—it crawled. Beneath his skin, along his spine, curling up behind his ribs like it was trying to get out. And every time the jet hit the slightest patch of turbulence, every sway of the cabin, every shift in yourbreathing—he reacted. His head would lift like he was tracking you by sound alone, pupils blown wide, like you were the only oxygen in the room.

And you—God—you sat across the jet from him, arms wrapped around yourself like that could hold you steady, eyes tracing the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but him. Because looking at him meant seeing the raw need he was fighting to keep contained. It meant seeing him hurt.

After briefing Tony and Bruce, and getting a “That man inhaled weaponized lust dust?” said over a pair of glasses and raised brows, Tony locked Bucky in a super soldier-proof room with bulletproof glass windows and an amazing vitals monitoring system. But if you asked for Bucky's opinion, the quarantine quarters were sterile in an unsettling way. 

The lights were too bright, the sheets were chafy and uncomfortable against his skin, and everything was too white and clean. He managed to sweat through a shirt already, pacing around like a cautionary tale, and was on his way to doing so a second time. Not even the AC was able to help cool him off. 

His eyes kept flicking—to the glass. To you, every few seconds, like his body knew exactly where you were even when he forced himself to look away.

Bruce was scrolling through old SHIELD and Hydra files on a tablet, voice low, clinical, steady.

“The compound works by hijacking limbic and hypothalamic pathways,” he murmured. “Drives instinctual bonding and reproductive compulsion. Increases cortisol and dopamine at unsafe levels. If we don’t neutralize it, he could go into cardiac stress within the next 12 to 24 hours.”

Your stomach dropped.

Tony glanced over. “But hey, great news. He won’t die from horny. Probably. Unless he, you know—” he mimed an explosion near his chest. “Pops like an over-microwaved hot dog.”

Steve glared. “Tony.”

“What? Humor is how I cope with things trying to kill us. Or in this case, trying to rail someone into a medically concerning state.”

“He’s getting worse,” you whispered. “His breathing’s all over the place. The pacing isn’t helping anymore. We can’t just let him ride this out.”

Steve scrubbed a hand down his face. “Bruce is working as fast as he can—”

“Stop talking about me like I’m not here!” Bucky's voice snapped through the intercom, ragged and pained, and incredibly frustrated. 

The room froze for a second. Steve flinched just slightly—guilt flashing across his face, Bruce and Tony looked up, and Sam turned around from where he was, back facing the windows Bucky was now bracing his hand on. 

And Bucky—

Bucky had turned around, from his pacing back and forth, and settled in front of the glass walls. His chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths. His jaw was set, eyes blown wide and dark, and sweat made his shirt cling to him like a second skin.

What stopped you dead in your tracks wasn't that, though. It wasn't his shirt starting to get soaked through, it wasn't his forehead shiny with sweat, it was the fact that the sweats he changed into did absolutely nothing to hide the state he was in. 

You hadn't meant to look, but like the moon pulls the tide, your gaze found the almost offensive tent he was pitching in his pants. Long, heavy, solid, straining against fabric that was doing absolutely zero work as a barrier—just pressed up the left side, the outline unmistakable.

Your pulse thundered behind your ribs like your heart wanted to sprint out of your chest and run to him. Steve—poor, earnest, helpful Steve—instantly jerked his head away like he’d just accidentally opened a stranger’s bathroom door.

“Oh my God,” Steve muttered, eyes locked firmly on the ceiling tiles. “Yep. Okay. Yep. We’ve reached that stage. Great.”

Sam spoke, turning back around, voice flat and so exhausted it could have been legally declared a sigh. “Yeah, I’m not making eye contact with any of that. I’m barely managing my own dignity today.”

Tony lifted his coffee mug like a toast to misery. “We’re all fighting for our lives right now, Wilson.”

Joaquin muttered something that sounded like holy mother of thirst traps, and immediately shut his mouth when Sam elbowed him.

He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated and burning and so far past okay he had lapped the field. “This is ridiculous,” he snapped, voice hoarse. “There’s no reason for me to be locked up like some—some feral animal. I said I’m fine.”

“Bucky,” you murmured, tone unimpressed. “Your heart rate is at one-seventy and you are five minutes away from humping the corner of the room.”

“I’m fine.” He snarled the word like it personally insulted him.

He turned again—another pacing lap, another moving target distracting you from the actual problem. Or making you focus on it, depends who you ask. 

Swing. Swing.

Your eyes followed it like it had its own orbit. With every step he took, his breathing got worse, and his cock bobbed and swung with the movement. Did they even bother to get him a pair of boxers? For god's sake. 

You tried to look away and failed. Spectacularly. 

Bucky stopped mid-step when he noticed. Tilted his head once he followed your gaze, and then slowly focused his back on you, like he was studying you. The same way a jaguar tilts its head before crushing a prey's skull between its teeth. So slow, you felt it in your knees. 

He wiped his face with the hem of his shirt—lifting it—exposing the deep, carved lines of muscle, the stretch of his abdomen, the line of hair disappearing down—

You nearly whimpered.

“Yeah,” he rasped, voice shredded, “now imagine what it feels like." Oh, you did. "Inside my skin. Constant. Pressure. Heat. And I can’t fucking touch anything because the second I do—” The thing is, Bucky didn't know every word out of his mouth at any given moment would, in fact, find its way to burrow under your skin. 

Each word from his mouth meant another step towards the glass that was separating you both. 

And against your better judgement, you had imagined it. You've imagined your hands wrapped around it, you've imagined the weight of it on your tongue, you've imagined it so far in the back of your throat that—

"Stop breathing like that—I can hear it.”

Your breath caught, like a well trained animal obeying its master. "I'm not breathing in any different way."

"I can smell you too." And that made your brain short circuit. "It's sweet, and—" He groaned, letting his head fall forward. "Fuck, you smell—" Not even Stevie Wonder could've missed the drool that was pooling on his bottom lip and falling onto the floor. 

“Wanna taste it. Lick you open right here on the floor. Tongue-fuck your pussy until you can’t remember your own name.”

When he lifted his head again, it felt like the entire world narrowed to just you two. With thick super soldier proof glass in between. 

His breath fogged the glass at the same time his eyes narrowed at yours, looking for a sign that he was affecting you as much as you were affecting him. “You’ve thought about it.” Damn him, James Barnes and his ability to read you like a book written in a language only he could speak. “Oh, sweetheart.”

It's almost like he could hear your thighs clenching together. “You smell like you’re already wet—fuck.” Definitely not what you wanted him to announce over intercom to the entire team, but the blush creeping up your neck really didn't allow you to focus on anything other than the image in front of you. 

Bucky Barnes, in a heathered grey shirt that he was sweating through, with a sinfully thin pair of sweatpants that could be an HR violation if anyone didn't know the contect of why anyone in the room with eyes could tell that was a perfect outline of his hard cock swinging around like it owned the place. 

With previous icy blue eyes that were now blown black with lust, looking at you like you were the next meal of a very starving beast. A beast that was frothing at the mouth at the though of the taste of you. 

“You smell warm,” he murmured. “Like your skin would taste soft.” He continued, like taunting you was making anything better and not just riling both of you even more. “And you’re trying so fucking hard not to move,” he said, voice breaking into a whisper. “Not to come closer.”

"You're not exactly making it easy."

Another wave hit him and he winced. "I can't think with you here." He swallowed hard. "All I see when you're near is just your back hitting plaster and your legs around my hips.”

His breathing fractured—like something inside him had finally tipped past reason into pure, raw instinct. “I wish this glass wasn’t here,” he said, teeth gritted like the words hurt. “I’d have you on your knees already… drooling around my cock.”

The air left your lungs. The more he talked the more it felt like one of those moments in the late summer into fall, where the pool is too cold and you jump in anyway. The moment where your lungs feel too small and the atmosphere feels too much and all you can really do is hyperventilate and try to breathe the shock away. 

“You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” he said, like he was discovering something and confirming it all in the same breath. His tongue dragged over his bottom lip without him thinking—messy, desperate. “You’d open your pretty mouth and take me all the way down just to make me stop begging.”

“You’d look up at me while you did it,” he murmured, fever-slow, obscene in how sure he was. “Eyes wide, tears in the corners, letting me fuck your throat until you couldn’t speak.”

“Stop making me picture it.” It was barely above a whisper, really. You're not sure anyone heard it over the sound of both of you breathing as hard as you were. 

The drool slid from his lip again—slow, heavy—hanging for a moment before it fell to the floor. He didn’t notice, he couldn’t. His hips shifted—just a slight forward roll—and you bit your lower lip so hard you nearly bruised it.

Bucky's voice cracked down the middle. “Fuck—please—” His metal hand scraped against the glass, fingers curling. “I need— I need to— I need you—” He swallowed, jaw trembling, breath stuttering like holding himself together physically hurt. “Just let me wreck you,” he whispered.

He asked like your answer would ever be no. Like being that close to him without having him inside of you didn't physically hurt sometimes. Like you didn't have vivid dreams of his teeth on the bare skin of your ass and his hand wrapped around your neck like jewelry that belonged in the Louvre.

Steve stepped in between you two, ushering you away from Bucky. "That's enough." 

Bucky’s head snapped toward him, eyes blown wide and dark like storm clouds about to break “No,” he snarled, voice rough with panic instead of anger. “No—don’t—”

Bruce came forward, gentle hands on your shoulders. A doctor moving someone out of a blast radius. “Come on,” he murmured, soft. “Give him a second. His vitals are spiking—he needs distance to stabilize.”

“He doesn’t need distance,” Bucky barked, hands slamming against the glass—palms flat—every tendon in his arms standing out in painful, shaking relief. “He needs her.”

“Buck. You need to stop.” Steve kept his voice low, even. “Listen to yourself.”

Bucky’s chest was heaving—breaths quick and hot and uneven. "I'm sorry, fuck— I—" He didn’t look at Steve, didn’t look at Bruce. He didn’t look at anything except you as Bruce’s hand eased you back.

“Don’t take her away. Please. Please—” Bruce kept moving you carefully, slowly—gentle pressure between your shoulders.

You tried to go about your night. You really did.

You showered. You changed. You sat on the edge of your bed with your hair still damp, staring at the wall like it might offer you a door out of your own head. But every time you closed your eyes, you saw him—forehead pressed to the glass, voice cracking when he said please, the kind of sound someone makes when they’re falling and they already know the ground is going to hurt.

You lay back, staring blankly at the ceiling. You tried to count your breaths—steady, even, controlled. But your breathing only reminded you of his. That ragged, uneven, burning inhale that came when he was trying to keep himself from breaking.

You turned onto your side. Then your back again. Pulled the blanket up. Pushed it off. You tried to be rational. To be logical. To be the good, responsible, emotionally stable adult in this situation.

But there was something tugging at you, something far deeper and quieter than lust. Something warm and sore and impossible to ignore.

So you did what any sane (not) person would do, and snuck away from your quarters, through the corridors, and into the med bay to be alone and unsupervised with a super soldier under the influence of super soldier viagra mixed with preworkout to say the very least. 

The med bay was washed in low overnight lighting, the kind meant to soothe but doing absolutely nothing to calm the electricity tangled in the air. Bucky had been pacing for long enough that it was surprising the floor hadn't given in to the shape of his path. 

His hair clung to his temples, damp and curling where it stuck. His breath came in harsh, uneven bursts, chest rising too fast, like his lungs couldn’t catch air fast enough to match the fire under his skin.

Every few steps his metal hand flexed involuntarily, fingers clenching like he needed something—someone—to hold on to.

He didn’t see you.

He was somewhere inside the fever.

“Fuck—” he grit out, stopping long enough to brace both hands against the wall, muscles in his back rippling as he bowed his head, throat exposed to the floor like he was trying to bleed the heat out of himself.

He took another step—stumbled—caught himself on the exam table— and then something in him just broke. He dragged his hand up his chest like he was trying to tear the heat out of himself, jaw clenched so hard a vein pulsed at his temple.

Your voice came out softer. “Buck.” He froze completely. He had hallucinations of your voice earlier that day, sweet little mewls you'd let out if you were there with him to siphon them out of you, while he tried to take care of the issue on his own. 

Slowly, he turned his head toward the sound, and his eyes found you. And something in his entire body gave out. His breathing stuttered—hard—like his ribs were suddenly too tight to contain the relief.

He took a full, instinctive step toward you—body moving before thought—and then something in him seized. The sensible part of his brain stopped him from getting closer to the glass. 

"Get out of here."

Your brows furrowed in confusion. "Bucky, I—"

"Get the fuck out of here." He doubled over in pain again. "It hurts worse when you're so close and I can't—"

Your voice came out thin—fragile—almost unrecognizable to your own ears. “Bucky… I’m begging you. I can’t just stand out here and watch you suffer.”

"It wouldn't— I could—" If his brain started leaking out of his ears, you wouldn't be exactly surprised. "It's not safe for you." He flinched like the words actively hit him.

"You'd never hurt me."

"You could beg me to stop and I wouldn't be able to." 

He was still bent over, hand braced on the wall, every muscle in his back trembling from restraint. His breath dragged ragged through his chest, sweat rolling down his sternum in a slow line that made your own pulse stumble.

“I’m begging you,” you whispered. “Let me help.”

He shook his head once—sharp—like the motion hurt. “Don’t sound like that—”

“Like what?”

“Like you want me.” The words tore out raw, like he’d ripped them straight from the center of him.

The room went quiet for a moment, and you had yet another brilliant idea that wouldn't get you in trouble bigger than you could handle at all. Your feet moved you to stand by the control panel, and his head snapped up—eyes blown wide, panic flaring under the fever.

“Don’t do that. Don’t come in here. I’m telling you—I can’t—” You typed in your override code with steady hands, changed a single setting in the lock, and despite Bucky's protests, the door hissed open, and you bolted into the room before it latched closed again.

“I’m not leaving you alone in here.” Bucky grabbed you by the arm and attempted to open the door, not knowing you locked it from the outside. 

"Are you insane?!" He didn't sound angry, he sounded terrified. Terrified of not being able to hold back from everything he wanted to do to you. 

You moved toward him—not with impulse, but with a quiet, controlled resolve that came from somewhere deep in your chest. Bucky didn’t step back this time. He just watched you, breathing unevenly, shoulders tense like every muscle in his body was wound tight enough to snap.

You lifted your hand slowly, giving him time to stop you if he needed to. He didn’t. So you let your palm settle against his bare chest, right over his heartbeat. His skin was hot—fever-hot—but under your hand the fire shifted, softened, just enough to change from a burn to an ache. The air left him in a long, shaking exhale, like your touch let him breathe for the first time in hours.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder, not in collapse, but in relief. A small shudder went through him, his ribs expanding against your hand as he tried to steady himself. You could feel his pulse hammering, fast and uneven.

“It’s a little better,” he murmured, voice rough against your collarbone.

“Not enough,” you said quietly.

He shook his head, and you felt the motion against your skin. “No. Not nearly enough.”

Your thumb traced a slow, grounding arc just beneath his sternum, the simplest touch offered as reassurance. His metal hand hovered near your hip, not touching you, shaking with restraint. Every part of him was working to not grab, not pull, not give in to instinct.

“Bucky,” you murmured. Your hand slid up, fingers brushing the line of his collarbone before you cupped the side of his jaw. His skin was hot beneath your touch, flushed. “Let me help.”

His eyes squeezed shut, his brow furrowing like the words physically hurt.

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Yes, I do.” Your voice stayed soft, steady. “I know you. I know you would never hurt me. And I’m standing right here choosing you.”

His breath caught, a shaking inhale that didn’t quite make it all the way in. You leaned in slowly, giving him time to stop you—even now—and pressed your lips to the sharp angle of his jaw.

He made a sound—low, involuntary—something between a groan and a gasp, his grip tightening on your hip without meaning to. The heat of him was overwhelming now that you were fully inside his space, and when you shifted closer, your thigh brushed the unmistakable, urgent press of him against the front of his sweats.

He jolted—like the contact shocked him—but he didn’t step back.

You whispered against his jaw, your lips barely moving. “Let me help, Buck.”

His breath stuttered, chest rising too fast against yours.

“Please,” you whispered, the word soft and warm and devastating. “Let me take care of you.”

His resolve buckled—not shattered, not broken—but gave.

You slid your hand down, slow and deliberate, until your palm hovered at the waistband of his sweats. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t speak. His eyes locked on yours—wide, dark, waiting.

So you touched him.

Your palm cupped him through the fabric, the heat and weight of him filling your hand instantly. He let out a sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest—raw, ragged, helpless. His forehead fell forward until it nearly touched yours, his breath shaking against your cheek.

You kept your touch slow. Gentle. Controlled. No teasing, no sudden movements—just steady pressure, your hand molded to him through the soft cotton, up and down in a rhythm meant to soothe the fever thrumming under his skin.

His fingers dug into your hip—not hard, just anchoring.

“Sweetheart—” His voice was barely a voice, just breath and need. “If you—if you keep doing that—I’m not gonna—”

You kissed his jaw again, slower this time.

“That’s the point,” you whispered. His breath collapsed against your neck and you stroked him again—firmer this time.

The roughness in his breathing started to shift, not easing but changing, gathering into something more focused, less chaotic. But the fever was still burning too hot, crawling under his skin like an electric current with nowhere to go.

So you sank to your knees.

The floor was cold beneath you, a stark contrast to the heat bleeding off of him. Your fingers found the waistband of his sweats and tugged. He didn’t stop you. Couldn’t. His head hit the wall behind him with a dull thud, chest heaving as he tried—failed—not to look down at you.

You freed him from the confines of the fabric, and he sprang forward—thick, flushed, already leaking, and twitching with need. Your breath caught as you wrapped your hand around him properly for the first time.

He let out a strangled groan so loud it echoed off the sterile walls. One hand reached down blindly, threading through your hair like it was the only lifeline he had left. He whispered your name like a curse, like a prayer, like salvation.

Your tongue flattened against the underside of him first, tracing the thick, pulsing vein that ran along the length of his cock. You felt him twitch in your hand, heard the harsh stutter of his breath above you as his grip in your hair tightened just enough to sting. When your lips wrapped around the flushed, leaking tip, Bucky actually whimpered.

“Fuck—” he choked, hips jerking despite himself. “Jesus, baby, that mouth—”

You hollowed your cheeks and took more of him, inch by inch, until your lips kissed the base and your throat fluttered around him. The way he gasped—it was like he’d been drowning and finally broke the surface.

“God, you’re—fuck, I knew it, I knew you’d take me like this,” he hissed. “So good. So fucking good. Like you were meant for me.”

His knees almost buckled.

The sweat rolling down his chest gathered at the sharp lines of his abdomen, and he looked down, glassy-eyed and wrecked, watching his cock disappear past your lips over and over. You stroked what you couldn’t fit, twisting your wrist, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth to join the obscene, wet sounds echoing off the walls.

He didn’t last long.

He couldn’t—hadn’t been touched in hours, hadn’t let himself feel anything in months, maybe years, and now here you were, mouth full of him, eyes blown wide with submission and need, and he could feel the fever receding under your touch, like you were the cure he didn’t deserve.

His head slammed back against the wall again, both hands in your hair now as he held you there, not forcing—just anchoring—just begging. “Just a little more, baby. Just—fuck, I’m so close, please—”

“It’s still bad, isn’t it?” He didn’t answer. “You don’t have to hold back with me.” You rose up just enough to press your mouth to the inside of his thigh—soft, slow, intentional—then looked up again, voice thready but determined. “Take what you need from me, Bucky.”

You take him into your mouth again—no hesitation this time, no slow pacing. You hum around him; you don’t even realize you do it. His whole body jerks—hips twitching forward, instinct overriding restraint for a split second.

His hips roll forward—slow at first, testing, like he’s afraid of how much he needs this. But when your hands grip his thighs and you pull him closer, the last of his restraint just… slips.

“Sweetheart—” His voice drops, a gravel-soft moan. “Okay. Okay, I—shit—”

His rhythm finds you, and it pushes his cock inside of your mouth over and over again, bruising the back of your throat, making your eyes water. 

Bucky, on the other hand, was losing his mind. He feels like this could only really be a fever dream. The vision before him being one that he only saw seconds before waking up in a sticky mess of his own cum in his room some nights. 

“You have no idea—” A thrust, shallow but desperate. “I’ve wanted—” Another, deeper now, hips stuttering. “God—this—this—” He chokes on your name.

Your moan around him sent him right to the edge.

He came hard, with a broken cry that echoed with pain and relief and something that sounded suspiciously like your name. Hot, thick ropes spilled onto your tongue, down your throat, and you took every drop, swallowing around him while his body trembled, legs unsteady, heart thundering behind his ribs.

He looked down at you afterward, wrecked beyond recognition, jaw slack and pink lips parted like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“…holy fuck,” he rasped.

You didn’t even need to say anything—your eyes said it all. Your fingers curled tighter around the base of him, guiding him back to your lips, already red and slick with spit and the remnants of his release. You pressed a slow kiss to the tip, and Bucky swore under his breath, hips twitching.

“You’re still hard,” you murmured, voice low, almost disbelieving. “You need more.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you—head cocked, eyes wild and glassy, like he was still fighting himself even while his cock throbbed in your grip, fully hard again. His breath hitched when you opened your mouth, letting your tongue flatten against the underside of him again, licking him like you missed it.

That was all it took.

A rough groan tore from his chest as his hips surged forward, pushing himself back into your mouth. You moaned around him, taking him deeper, your throat already used to the stretch. His grip tightened in your hair, holding you steady this time—not pushing, not yet, just anchoring as he began to roll his hips, slow at first, dragging himself against your tongue.

But he couldn't hold back. Not when you looked like that. Not when you made those sounds.

“Open wider,” he grit out, voice almost guttural. “Let me—fuck, let me use your mouth.”

You did. You relaxed your throat, looked up at him through heavy lashes, and let him have it.

He began to thrust—deep, slow at first, but building with every breath. Each time he bottomed out, your throat flexed, gagging just a little, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. And he loved it. Ate it up like a man starved.

“Shit—shit, baby,” he groaned, hips stuttering. “Look at you—taking it so fucking well, like it’s what your mouth was made for.”

He was leaking again, throbbing inside you, grunting with every pass of his cock down your throat. You could feel him fighting the edge again already—his whole body shaking, hair falling into his eyes, thighs tense beneath your hands.

He came again. Harder this time. The first shot hit the back of your throat as he choked out your name like it was the only word he knew. His hips didn’t stop moving. Even as he emptied himself into your mouth, he was still hard, still needing.

When he finally stilled, breathing like he’d just run ten miles, he looked down at you—ruined, wrecked, flushed—and exhaled your name like a plea.

“I still need more.”

Your lips were swollen, spit-slick, eyes glossy and dazed as you slowly released him from your mouth with a wet pop. Bucky was panting above you, flushed all the way down his chest, body still trembling from his second orgasm—and still hard. Angry and flushed and leaking again, like his body didn’t understand that two should’ve been enough.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, but your gaze never left him. Not for a second. And he looked down at you like he was about to fall to his knees. Or break through the floor. Or both.

Then you stood.

Without a word, you reached for his wrist and guided him—slowly, steadily—toward the exam table. The padded med bed sat cold and untouched, the thin clinical comforter shuffled under your grip as you leaned against it and looked over your shoulder at him.

His hands were on your hips before you even breathed, gripping you like you were the only tether he had to this fucking world. He yanked your sleep shorts and underwear down in one swift, rough motion, groaning when he saw how wet you were—slick, glistening, thighs trembling.

“All this for me?” he muttered, almost in disbelief, dragging the tip of his cock through your folds. You gasped—more from the weight of it than the tease.

“I’ve been yours,” you panted, looking back at him over your shoulder. “You just haven’t fucked me like it.”

That did it.

He lined up and shoved in with one brutal, gorgeous thrust—splitting you open on his cock so deep you almost screamed. Your hands scrambled for purchase on the med bed, fingers clawing at the sheets as your body struggled to accommodate him. He was thick, long, heavy—and unrelenting. No time to adjust. No warning. Just full.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hissed, bottoming out inside you. “You feel like heaven. Hot, tight—fuck, I can feel your pussy fluttering already—”

You were already trembling under him, already dripping down your thighs. He grabbed a fistful of your hair and tugged your head back gently, just enough to murmur in your ear as he rocked into you.

“You wanted this,” he growled. “Wanted to help? Mmm? Did you? Or did you just want an excuse to have my cock inside of you?”

You whimpered, unable to speak—your brain blank, body overstimulated, mouth falling open.

“Say it,” he snarled, thrusting harder. “Tell me you begged for this cock.”

“I—I begged for it,” you gasped. “Bucky—oh my God—you’re so—fuck—you’re so deep, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he said, and then he was railing into you—brutal and beautiful and ruthless—his cock driving into you so hard your toes curled and your walls clamped down around him. Your stomach was pressed to the cold med bed now, knees buckling as he fucked you through it, chest bouncing with every thrust.

“Please,” you sobbed. “Please don’t stop—”

“Never,” he growled. “I’m not stopping until you’re filled up and leaking for me. Until you can’t walk straight. Until they smell me on you.”

His rhythm faltered.

You could feel it—how his thrusts turned erratic, his breath shortened into harsh, broken gasps against your skin, every nerve in his body set to burn. He was so deep inside you, so swollen and throbbing, and even though he’d already come twice, he was barely holding on now, just riding the edge with ragged desperation.

“Too—fuck—can’t—” he growled, hips snapping hard and fast as his chest collapsed against your back. “You’re gonna—ahhh—milk me dry, baby.”

You barely got a gasp out before he slammed into you one last time and bit down on the curve of your shoulder—hard.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t controlled. It was animal.

Teeth sinking into skin just below your neck, like claiming you was the only thing keeping him alive. The sting of it only made your orgasm crash harder, clenched around him like a vice just as he spilled inside you—thick and hot, cock pulsing violently through the aftershocks, moaning into your skin like it broke him.

But Bucky didn’t pull out.

Didn’t move away like someone who just had his third orgasm in less than an hour. No—he collapsed over your back for a moment, panting, shaking, and then lifted his head, wrapped his arms around your waist, and lifted.

You gasped as your spine straightened, as he manhandled you into the center of the bed with strength that made your head spin. 

“I need to see your face,” he muttered, voice wrecked and low. “Need to watch you come around me this time.”

He flipped you over, sweat-slick hands gripping the undersides of your thighs and pushing them up, folding you into a tight mating press before you could even think. Your knees were practically pinned to your chest, legs spread wide, cunt exposed—wet and puffy and already leaking with him.

Bucky looked down at you like a starving man finally given permission to devour. And even though his cock was still twitching from the last orgasm—sensitive, too sensitive—he lined himself back up, and pushed inside again with a groan that bordered on agony.

“Fuck, fuck—hurts so good,” he panted, hips rolling slow this time, deep. “Too much. Too fucking much, but I can’t stop.”

You moaned, head thrown back, fingernails digging into his arms.

“Look at me,” he growled. “Want you looking at me when I fuck you full again. Want you remembering who did this to you. Who made you this wet. This messy.”

His hands pressed your thighs deeper, nearly folding you in half, angle so intense you could feel him in your stomach.

“Feel that?” he whispered, voice rough and wrecked. “That’s me. Right fucking there.”

Your fingers reached for him, tangling in his sweat-damp hair, needing him closer. He dropped his forehead to yours, breath mingling, mouths nearly brushing as his cock dragged slow and deep inside you—wet and squelching from how much he’d already spilled.

“Tell me you want it,” he panted. “Tell me you want more.”

“I want it,” you breathed. “Want everything.”

His cock twitched at the sight. At the mess he’d already made of you.

But it still wasn’t enough.

“Fuck, look at this pussy,” he groaned, lining up again. “Stuffed and still begging for more. You’re leaking down the backs of your thighs and I haven’t even gotten serious yet.”

Then he slammed back into you.

You whined, mouth falling open, hands scrabbling at his arms, nails dragging down his sweat-slicked biceps. The sound of his cock driving into you, the wet slap of skin against skin, was obscene—echoing off the cold med bay walls. Each thrust was brutal, hungry, unrelenting.

“Yes,” you gasped, back arching, eyes wide and wild. “Fucking ruin me, Bucky.”

He snarled like you’d just handed him a license to break you.

“Gonna stretch this pussy until I mold you to the shape of my cock,” he growled, sweat dripping from his temples as he drove deeper, harder, each thrust punching a breath out of your lungs. “You were made for this. For me. Just like this.”

Your thighs trembled where he held them pinned. Your cunt clamped down on him like your body didn’t want to let go, and it made him growl—low, animal, primal.

“I can feel you squeezing me—fuck—milking my cock.”

“Because you’re fucking perfect inside me,” you moaned, wrecked. “So fucking deep, Bucky—I feel you in my throat.”

He didn’t let up. He wanted you boneless. Brainless. Gone. He needed you raw and crying and fucked full. His balls slapped against your ass, cock driving into the tight, wet clutch of you over and over, chasing the next high like a man possessed.

“Gonna breed you, baby,” he whispered in a wrecked, breathless voice. “Wanna fuck it in so deep you’ll be dripping with me for days. Wanna see your belly swollen from how much I put in you.”

You cried out—clenching around him like your body wanted that, like it needed it.

His thrusts turned downright feral, pounding into you so hard the med bed squealed beneath your bodies. You held onto him like you’d fly off the earth otherwise, like he was the only real thing in the universe.

“You’re mine,” he snarled into your ear. “This pussy? Mine. This fucking body? Mine.”

“All yours,” you sobbed, overwhelmed and blissed-out. “Please, Bucky—don’t stop.”

“I won’t.” He pressed your legs even tighter to your chest, bent down until his chest was against yours, and fucked you into the bed like the world was ending.

You didn’t know how long it had been.

How many times he’d come. How many times you had. You were shaking, soaked, stretched so wide around him that it felt like you were being fucked into another dimension. Your thighs burned from being pinned open in the tightest press imaginable, your body locked beneath his. Sweat pooled between your bodies, his skin slick and hot, his muscles trembling with effort.

You sobbed when he thrust again—slow, deep, dragging the head of his cock along every oversensitive inch of your cunt.

“Bucky—” you whimpered, voice broken. “I can’t—I can’t—”

“You can,” he groaned, still moving inside you. “You are.”

Your tears were hot as they spilled down your cheeks. Not from pain. Not from fear. From bliss. Pure, ruined, brain-melting pleasure that had nowhere else to go but out through your eyes.

And still—he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t stop. Not when your walls were fluttering around him again, your cunt choking his cock like your body was begging for one more release.

“Baby,” he rasped, voice wrecked beyond repair, “I can’t—fuck—I’m so close—again—”

You were babbling now, hands clawing at his back, words slurred through cries. “Please, please, come again—fill me up, Bucky, don’t stop, don’t stop—”

That shattered him.

His hand found your jaw, gripping it firm but careful, tilting your face to the side, tears still streaking your flushed cheeks. His mouth dropped to your jawline, teeth grazing your skin before he bit down—just enough to make you cry out. To mark you. To claim.

His lips dragged against your wet cheek, breath hot and ragged as he whispered filth directly into your skin.

“You’re gonna be ruined for anyone else,” he growled. “No one else’ll ever fuck you this deep. No one else’ll fill you like I do. You’ll think about this—every time you sit down and feel me leaking out of you.”

You gasped, your pussy clenching tight again, and that made him snarl.

“Oh, you like that,” he panted against your cheek. “You like knowing I’ve come in you three times and I’m still fucking going—filling you to the brim like this pussy belongs to me.”

“It does,” you sobbed. “It’s yours—it’s only yours.”

He bit down again—right beneath your cheekbone—and his hips bucked hard, cock twitching, and then he spilled inside you again.

Hot, thick, endless—your body taking it all, your womb aching with how much he was pumping into you, filling you again and again like some primal need had taken hold and wouldn’t let go.

You clung to him, nails dragging down his sweat-slick back, body convulsing with overstimulation, your own orgasm cresting again, tears slipping freely down your cheeks, wet between your legs and everywhere else.

And through it all—his voice stayed right in your ear.

Sunlight filtered through the high, frosted windows—gold and soft, painting long lines across the floor and sterile white counters. Machines hummed faintly. The scent of antiseptic still clung faintly to the air, but it was dulled now, overpowered by the unmistakable smells of sweat, sex, and fabric softener.

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose before they even turned the corner.

“I’m just saying,” he muttered, tablet in hand, “if he exploded in the middle of the night, it’s your fault, Rogers. You’re the one who insisted on the glass enclosure.”

“He didn’t explode,” Steve replied, voice calm but tight. “But we need to check his vitals. And see if the fever’s gone for good.”

“And you don’t think maybe knocking first would be—”

The door hissed open.

Tony stepped in first, looking up from his tablet. Steve followed—and froze halfway through the threshold.

There, on the exam bed, tangled in sheets and wrapped around each other like two vines too stubborn to separate, were you and Bucky.

Naked.

Dead asleep.

His arm was slung over your waist, metal hand curled possessively around your hip. Your leg was draped over his. His nose was buried in your neck. One of your hands was splayed on his chest, and both of your mouths were parted in very unflattering, very loud, synchronized snoring.

And the sheets?

The sheets were barely covering anything.

“Oh Jesus,” Steve hissed, immediately turning around so fast his shoulder knocked into a tray of sterile wipes. “Nope. No. That’s—nope.”

Tony took one look, blinked, and quietly said, “So the mating press was successful.”

Steve groaned. “Tony.”

“What?! They’re alive. They’re breathing. No heart attack. Just a—y’know—thorough night of… clinical bonding.”

“Stop talking.”

Tony didn’t stop talking. He just raised the tablet and started typing. “Gotta say, though, Barnes is kind of a legend.”

Steve made a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a choked-off scream. “I am not listening to this.”

“You know,” Tony continued, ignoring him completely, “most guys tap out after two. Maybe three if they’ve got performance enhancers. But your boy over there looks like he went five, maybe six rounds. Give the man a medal.”

Steve was red in the face now. “Tony.”

And on the bed, completely oblivious, Bucky grumbled something about peaches and tight little throats in his sleep, nuzzled deeper into you, and pulled you even closer.

Tony paused.

“…okay, maybe a warning label instead of a medal.”

a/n: as always, if this is buns don’t perceive me!!!!

He sat on a rooftop across the street from Steve's apartment, using the scope of his rifle to see more clearly across the way. Empty, as it always was at 8:03pm on Thursdays. Steve wouldn't be home for another 28 minutes.

The Asset didn't feel much. Didn't feel anything, really. Nothing but the uncomfortable grip of the muzzle around his face, and the stiff leather and kevlar around his body.

And he didn't say a single thing about it. Because the Winter Soldier never complains, only complies.

But one day, he felt really, really bored. And his scope wandered to your apartment balcony windows, right to the left of Steve's.

He took in the little string lights you had put on the railing, twinkling like stars against the warm summer weather, and the little outdoor mat you put out along with a comfy outdoor chair for when the weather was nice enough for a cup of tea looking down to the city lights.

He adjusted the scope. Slowly.

Curtains not quite closed.

There. You.

Back turned to the glass, you moved across your living room barefoot, your arms lifted above your head as you tied your hair. Loose shirt. Soft shorts. Skin.

Soft, supple skin his eyes took in as he moved his gaze from your ankles, to your calves, and up your leg, until he reached the smallest hint of ass cheek that was peeking out from under your shorts.

Soft, supple skin he wanted to bite. And suck. And spank if you gave him a reason.

But in his mind, he wouldn't need to. Cause you'd be so good for him, wouldn't you?

That was 94 days ago.

And in 93 nights, he watched you. Sure, yeah, he had to watch Steve, make sure intel was up to date, but Steve got home a little later than you, and went to bed a little earlier.

Which allowed him exactly 186 minutes of just observing you. He allowed himself the small treat of letting his eyes follow your every move for about three hours a night.

He knew your routine. He knew you liked takeout from the little Japanese place three blocks down, the knew chamomile and lavender tea was your go to when you couldn’t sleep, and he knew you fell asleep with a spoon in your mouth from late-night ice cream more than once.

That was easy. He got that intel about 9 days in. And then something else started brewing.

Not duty, not rage. Something so much worse in the eyes of HYDRA. Curiosity.

Hunger for something he thought was lost about 62 years prior after many times in the wiping chair. Hunger in the shape of heat pooling low in his stomach, hunger in the shape of you spilling something on your shirt and taking it off to reveal nothing underneath before tossing it in the hamper and pulling another one on.

68 days ago, he lingered too long.

He saw you turn off the lights and light a candle in your room, placing it in the dresser by the door, across your bed. He watched you put on little white earbuds, get comfy in bed while downing your second glass of red wine, and figured you were gonna listen to rain sounds like you did a couple other times.

The Asset was packing up his rifle, and then he saw movement. Followed by the shadow of your oversized shirt being thrown carelessly onto the armchair by the bathroom door.

He tilted his head, crouching down again with the scope, eyes narrowing at you until he processed the image before him.

The sweet, sweet image that was definitely not for his eyes. No, his eyes have seen the insides of dead bodies who only met their end because of him. His eyes have seen torture, murder, arson, and every other bad thing you could think of.

Surely, the same eyes could not be graced with seeing you bite your plush lips as one of your hands rolled a nipple between your index and middle finger, and the other tickled its way down your stomach until in found the heat between your thighs.

He shifted uncomfortably on the rooftop across the way. Heat blooming up his chest and down his crotch, making his neck chafe and his pants feel impossibly tight.

He groaned deep when he saw you curve your back forward and plunge two fingers inside of yourself. Fingers he knew were much thinner and shorter than his, and not even comparable to the dimensions of what’s resting heavy between his legs.

It was cute, really.

The way your brows furrowed and your hand pumped your digits in and out like that was going to satisfy you. No… you needed about two inches of width and nine of length.

Which Bucky would gladly give to you.

He watched you chase a high, a whimper escaping through your curtains and into his serum enhanced eardrum, making it vibrate like the air above hot asphalt: soft, barely there.

Somehow, his tactical pants got tighter.

He watched your body contort, watched you turn on your stomach, making the sheet fall from your body. His eyes grazed the curve of your tricep, evident in the candle light as you worked your fingers in and out, slapping your clit with the heel of your hand.

He didn’t miss the expression on your face when your hips moved faster, chasing friction until a relieved look took over your face and you buried your face in your pillow to catch a breath.

That same night, his boots made the first contact with the soft fabric of the rug in your room.

He waited until you were asleep, all cleaned up, having discarded the panties you had on before into the hamper. He was silent, stealthy, deadly.

The thud of each step was soft, muted. He kept an eye on your sleeping frame, and told himself he was gathering more intel. He removed his glove off of his flesh hand, letting himself revel in the fabrics hung in your closet and tucked away in your dresser.

As if HYDRA would care that your perfume smelled like orris and vanilla, or that your lipgloss had tiny little specks of golden glitter in a sea of pink, or that you color coded the softest sweatshirts in your closet.

They would, however, care that he went through your hamper and took a pair of lacy, powder blue panties and put them in his back pocket. The Soldat had no wants of his own, and they certainly did not order him to do that.

That was the night he crossed a line.

He stood by your hamper with every intention to leave, he couldn’t be gone much longer or they’d wonder where he was and send his handler.

But then you moved.

Mindless, conscience far away in some dreamland brought to you by the sweet smelling wine leftover in your glass.

You turned to face him, eyes still closed, cheeks still flushed, body still entirely too naked. Your leg swung up to rest flexed, making you cuddle your pillow in a mountain-climber position, giving the hungry beast inside of him a view of the perfect feast: the needy, wet lips of your pussy.

He really, really should’ve left. But the hardness of his cock and the heaviness in his balls told him differently. Told him to make a choice for himself for the first time in God knows how long.

And he chose to take a deep breath inside of your safe haven of a bedroom, inhale a scent that was sweetness, soapy from your bath bombs, and just you, and pull his pants open with the most agonizing pace ever known to man, to make the least amount of sound possible.

The second his hand wrapped around his cock, he bit back a hiss. The discarded blue lace still tangled in his fingers, rubbing the skin, making the leaking tip even more needy.

His breathing got heavy behind the muzzle. His eyes couldn’t decide where to stay planted on: your cheeks, one squished into the pillow; your lips, letting out soft little puffs of breath in response to whatever dream you we're having; the slope of your waist, the curve of your ass, or the barely spent folds of your pussy.

God, he’d make good use of you. Rut into and rub you until you were puffy and sore and slick, and then do it some more just for good measure.

You tossed in your sleep again, laying on your back with your right leg tilted outwards and he just about lost it. One day he’d paint you with his release, leave you sticky with his cum until the morning, after hours of making you cry and sob on his cock driving in and out of you.

For tonight, he’d settle for cumming in your panties just picturing you beneath him, willing and wanting, while his hand jerked him faster.

He spilled over his own hand and the blue lace, the discreet little pink bow on the front of it now soaked, covered in cum. Like you would be, soon enough.

He placed bugs in your apartment that night.

One behind a painting of a cheetah you had hanging on your wall in the living room, one behind the bookcase by the TV, closer to the door, and two in your bedroom. One in the light fixture and one hidden on the underside if your bed frame.

It took you three days after that to notice something was... different.

It was laundry day, and no matter how many promises you made to patron saints that didn't exist, you just couldn't find your favorite pair of panties.

"You probably just forgot it in the dryer and now it's in some random hamper in the building causing relationship problems to an unsuspecting couple." Nat joked when you told her about it.

You just chuckled and agreed. Had to be, right? Wouldn’t be the first time something travelled to the wrong hamper. Hell, you got one of Sharon’s scrub tops in your laundry the other day.

It had been a particularly taxing day on the sparring mat, Steve probably made you sweat about six pounds off, and there was a bruise blooming somewhere from a hit you were too fatigued to dodge.

So, a little glass of wine and your favorite audio would surely solve the problem. Loosen all the tight muscles in your body and help lull you into a restful seven hours of sleep.

Your AirPods were dead, so on speaker it was. The link was much too easy to find. A solid performance you often came back to.

The Soldat saw both Steve's and your lights flick off at the same time, and his scope focused in on the open window that brought the warm summer breeze into your room.

Static crackled low in his ear as he turned on the device, and shortly after he heard your dreamy little sigh as he saw you set the phone on your nightstand and get comfortable in your bed.

The voice coming through the speakers was low, manly, rough. Commanding. He thought you were on the phone with somebody, and the thought of you touching yourself to please someone other than him made jealousy bloom in his chest, bitter little monster it was.

It didn't take him more than a couple of lines to realize it was a recorded audio, relief washing through his chest for a split second before it tightened again, with desire this time.

Hearing you follow the instructions the faceless voice gave you, it wasn't soft or slow. It was deliberate. Commanding. Every word an order disguised as pleasure.

"Hold still… I didn’t say you could move." "You can take it. Just like that."

He could hear how wet you were through the audio, the slick sound of your wetness mingling with the whimpers you let out when the voice told you to "Hold it... You haven't earned it yet."

"Say you're mine."

"I'm yours, please..." Oh the sweetness in your voice, pleading so pretty. Wouldn't be enough for him, though. He watched you make yourself cum way too fast, not even keeping pace with the recording this time, and thought about all the ways he could punish you for disobeying.

Would he edge you for hours? Maybe every night for a week? Or since you wanted to cum so bad you disregarded his orders, you should. He'd make you cum over and over again until your eyes crossed and your brain gave out.

The night when he snuck in, he added another line to his newly acquired collection. He touched you.

Passed out and deep in your subconscious, you didn't even flinch. You nuzzled into him, actually. The cool metal of his hand coming to graze your cheek bringing relief from the hot humid air.

You had your leg flexed again, and he just had to feel your skin against his. He told himself he'd go after that.

And his hand grazed lower, warmer, until it reached the curve of your hip, and the flesh of your ass cheek.

He squeezed, making you sigh into the pillow, not even budging, just one little grip and he'd go. He swore it.

And then another.

And then his hand travelled lower, until it found the warm slick of your pussy. The smallest whimper left your lips, almost imperceptible, at the feel of his index and middle finger parting your folds, once, then twice, then collecting the wetness that started to tease out of you.

Responsive little thing, weren’t you?

You stirred, brows furrowing when he rubbed lower at the bundle of nerves that hardened beneath his fingertips, and the crease between your brows deepened when he stuck two fingers inside of you.

Just a feel.

One feel of your velvety walls tight around his fingers, fluttering around him when he curled them to rub against the sweet little spot inside of you.

Then he’d go.

He had to.

You had come plenty that night, he didn’t have to make you do it again. In fact, he shouldn’t, you came too fast. Didn’t listen to directions.

He made the mistake of pulling his fingers out of you, and your hips instinctively chased after the friction.

He should go.

His lips wrapped around his fingers, licking the sweet juices off of them and reveling in the taste like someone would a sweet, juicy peach.

He groaned low in his chest, and the line got pushed just a little further. He knelt by the bed and spread your cheeks, movement that had your pussy clenching around nothing, attracting him like moth to a flame.

His mouth watered. Actual drool pooling between his teeth and onto his tongue, begging to make you slick all over. Ordering him to taste your sweet nectar and suck you dry.

The Soldat never complained, only complied.

Before he could think about how terribly bad of a decision that was, he leaned forward, tongue darting out of his mouth and onto your glistening folds, eliciting something between a whine and a gasp from you.

If there was any kind of super soldier MDMA, he was sure he found it then.

Both of his hands cupped your ass now, grabbing firmly enough to dig into the skin, pulling you closer to his face as he nuzzled further, flattening then curling his tongue up and down your slit before it plunged in and he sealed his lips around you.

Your whines got a little louder, still very obviously asleep, and he rutted his hips against the bed.

When he flicked your clit and gazed it with his teeth, you yelped, and he was sure he was thoroughly fucked. But you didn't move further, didn't get up and scream and try to grab for the gun he knew was under your pillow, you just kept pliant, unconscious, and delicious under his control until he decided you'd been good enough to cum.

You'd let him in, been a good little toy for him to play with, put on a show, and let him taste you. He could let you cum.

He felt your walls tighten around his tongue while his thumb rubbed your clit, and took that as a sign to see just how tight you could get. Deft fingers pumped in and out of you again while he sucked your clit until you came with a breathy whine, and barely a shuffle of your body chasing friction.

Needy little thing.

“Okay,” Natasha said as she breezed in, flipping through a classified file like it was a fashion magazine. “What’s with you?”

You blinked. “What?”

“You’ve looked like you’ve seen a ghost all morning.”

You hesitated. "I just… had this weird dream last night.”

Nat’s brows arched immediately. “Weird how?” You sipped your coffee instead of answering. Her eyes narrowed. “You’re flushed.”

You rolled your eyes. “Jesus, Nat—”

“Oh my god.” She dropped the file and grinned like a shark. “Was it dirty?”

You stared at her for a second too long. “No way,” she gasped. “You did have a dirty dream.”

“It wasn’t like that—” you started, but your voice caught. Because it was. You'd had your share of dreams like that, but none like that. None that you could still feel the next day.

Nat leaned back in her chair, folding her arms with a smug look. “Let me guess: tall, mysterious, dangerous eyes, probably some masked psycho from one of the horror movies you insist on watching before bed you’ve convinced yourself you could ‘fix’ with your mouth—”

“Nat—”

“Was it Steve?” she teased, waggling her brows. “Tell me it was Steve.”

“No,” you said too quickly. And maybe too defensively.

She tilted her head. “So… who, then?”

You stared at your coffee. “I don’t know. Didn't see his face.”

"Oh, so it was from the back, huh?"

"Natasha!"

The candlelight flickers the same way it always does. Your sheets are clean. Your hair’s damp from a shower. The same wine bottle from the night before sits untouched on your nightstand.

Everything should feel normal.

Your phone is already queued up with the usual — the audio you’ve played dozens of times when you need to forget the world, to relax, to release. You slip your earbuds in, press play, and sink back against the pillows.

The voice starts — low, commanding, steady.

"Don’t move. Hands where I left them."

You shift slightly, waiting for that familiar ache to start in your stomach, for your body to respond on autopilot. But nothing stirs.

You blink at the ceiling, adjusting your position. Maybe you’re just tense. The audio keeps going.

"You’re mine. Say it."

You close your eyes, but it doesn’t hit the same. You press your thighs together to no avail, feeling only static. You huff, and you puff, and you look for other audios. A couple peak your interest, you try them, and the same thing happens.

Then you stumble so far back into the username's plethora of posts that you ended up right back onto last year's Kintober, and an uncommon title catches your eye.

You get comfortable and press play.

It's rougher. There's special effects. The clicking of a lock, the rustle of fabric, a muffled scream against hands too rough to touch, and the soothing but rough voice just shushing the listener.

"Wouldn't want to be bad now, would you?"

For some dark and twisted reason, that's the audio that makes you gasp into the pillow on your stomach, knees propping your hips up while your shoulders stay down, touching yourself in the privacy of your own home, alone.

Well, with Bucky.

He heard you.

He heard you beg, and plead, and all of your "no, please!", "please stop!" with barely any conviction at all turn into "please let me cum" and "I'll be so good." like you weren't in complete control. Like you weren't pretending he was doing all of that to you.

But you didn't wanna be, did you? You wanted someone — him — to take control of you, of your body, so you could be a brainless little thing for him to use. So he could fuck you until you couldn't think of anything else but how full you felt with every ridge of his cock dragging in and out of you.

So he snuck in, beelined to your fridge, and dosed the bottle of wine you had in there.

Not too much, just enough to keep you pliant, loose, willing to understand that he was doing that for your own good — and his.

The cork gives that soft little pop and you pour the wine onto the glass, fresh sheets on the bed and the smell of violet, star anise, and vanilla from your bath bomb was clinging to your skin.

By the third sip, you’re back on the couch. Your limbs feel fine. A little loose, maybe. Relaxed. That’s what the wine’s supposed to do, isn’t it?

But your fingers feel slower on your phone screen. Like there’s static between thought and action. You thought about watching a TV show or a movie, but nothing seemed interesting enough.

You made your way to your room, and the room spun for a second when you got up at first. "No more port wine on an empty stomach, got it." You chuckled.

Ditching the robe in your bathroom, you grabbed the lotion and a pair of underwear from the dresser in your closet, light dusty pink this time.

How nice of you to make your skin even softer for him, dressing it in the prettiest lace you could find. He decided to observe from closer tonight, sitting right outside your balcony window.

You didn’t even register the lights outside were off.

The swoosh of the sliding door opening was muted by you humming something under your breath, spreading the lotion up and down your legs as it absorbed.

He was quiet like a cat coming in, sneaky beast ready to ambush you. God, you were so pretty. Like an innocent little doe not even knowing what was about to hit you.

When you registered the weight of a broad chest pressed to your back, leather digging into your skin, his hand was already over your mouth, muffling your screams.

You kicked your legs around trying to escape, but it didn’t even phase him.

Did that make him chuckle?

He tried to shush you, in between the ghost of a “let me go!” and a sob, the plopped you down on the bed, straddling your hips with his hand still over your mouth, the other one holding your wrists above your head.

Icy blue eyes stared at your tear rimmed ones. “If I take my hand away are you gonna be good?” Your squished cheeks nodded under his grip, harsh breath coming out of your nose, his brows perked up slightly and he slowly took his hand away from your mouth.

“HELP! PLE-“ He groaned in disapproval and his hand went right back to where it was before.

Clicking his tongue, he spoke again. “That was a bad, idea, baby.” A sob ripped through you and you squeezed your eyes shut. This had to be a nightmare, that was the only conceivable explanation. “No, no, don’t close your pretty eyes.”

His voice was low with desire, but soft and adoring like he was giving you what you always wanted. You could feel his breath over your face when he talked, the heavy weight of him covered in kevlar, dirty boots digging into your crisp white comforter tainting the fabric like how he was about to taint you.

"I heard all that begging, sweetheart." Wet lips kissed your jaw, and it made your skin crawl with the same strength it send jolts down your body. "You wanted me to take control, right? Wanted me to do whatever I wanted to ya."

Your eyes widened and you shook your head, another sob ripping through you, words muffled behind his palm. "Gonna give you another chance to tell me what you want, okay? Don't make me punish you."

You nodded, a little more dizzy than a couple of minutes before.

A beat of reluctant silence after he removed his hand let your hiccup be heard loud and clear in the room. "Please, just go." Your lips trembled around the words, like you didn't fully mean them. "I'll stop looking into-"

"Oh, honey.. This has nothing to do with that." His hands released your wrists and held your face in between both palms. "Though they're not gonna be happy about it either, I'll tell you that much."

Confusion flashed before your face, and that damn furrow between your brows and the pout on your lips as the gears turned in your head made him want to rip you apart just so he could be the one to put you back together.

"No, you... This... This is all mine." His hands roamed lower, thumb grazing the curve of your breast by your ribs.

"You don't have to do this-" He grabbed your face in his hand and got impossibly close to you.

His tongue came out to collect the salt of your tears pooling by your temple. "I do." He took a moment to savor the taste. "I really do." He caught your arm as it was aimlessly exploring under your pillow. "I took care of that too."

And you looked at him in horror. "You didn't think you were alone all this time, did you?" And as if looking for a weapon he had already discarded took the bit of grace he was about to give you away, he grabbed both of your wrists in one of his hands again, tying them to the headboard with something from one of the many pockets in his suit.

“Please, don’t do this, please…”

He just smiled at you. Wolfish and knowing. “But you’re enjoying it, baby.” He kissed down your neck and bit your collarbone, making you wince. “See?” Rolling the stiff peak of your nipple between his fingers.

You shook your head again. “No, I don’t, please—“

“No?” His face tilted, as if the question wasn’t rhetorical. “What’s this? Mmm?” His hand went to the front of your panties, rubbing slowly, making the fabric dance on top of your skin with the barrier of slick that had pooled there. “So wet, sweet thing… just like the other night.”

He saw a flash of recognition on your face, and you don’t know why your tummy flipped instead of bile rising in your throat. “You thought it was a dream, didn’t you?”

His fingers pressed harder, and you got dizzier. “No dream could make you cum like that, baby… I didn’t mean to… was greedy…” he kissed down your body, lips brushing against you with every word.

He nuzzled against the fabric of your panties. The lace felt softer against his face than it did against his cock all those nights ago.

“Y’can’t blame me, though… smelled so good, I had to get a taste.” He bit your lip through the lace and you hissed.

Bucky pulled it all the way down your legs, thick string of arousal connecting your pussy to the fabric until he pulled it far enough from you.

Stray tears kept coming here and there, and you kept squirming, flexing one leg quickly to try to kick him away, but he was too fast.

Holding your left thigh with his right hand and the other ankle with his left, he clicked his tongue again. “Now, angel, what did I tell you about being good? Mm?” He kissed over the bone of your ankle and bit down on it, not hard enough to leave a mark but hard enough to sting.

His lips soon found the crease of your thigh where it met your hips. “Please, stop…” He didn’t respond to that. Well… not verbally, at least. Your eyes squeezed shut at the eerily familiar feel of his lips on you, kissing you open as he held your thighs apart. “Oh, God—“

He licked, and sucked, and bit like the solace for his miserable existence could only be found in the oasis between your legs. Squelching was loud in the room already and it only got worse when he put two fingers inside of you.

"S'tight, baby." He looked up at you for a second before his gaze dropped down to where he was drinking you from, chin shiny with your wetness. "Don't want me to stop, d'you?"

You nodded your head and he shook his. How long was it gonna take for you to realize the only answers he'll take are the ones he wants? "'Fraid I can't."

When he curled his fingers inside of you, you felt like you were underwater. Your chest felt too tight and the coil in your stomach kept getting smaller and smaller, thighs clamping around his head like you wanted to keep him safe from the Siberian cold he would inevitably return to.

You tried squirming away from him at the same time your feet pressed hard onto his back to prevent him from leaving. As if he'd go anywhere.

You came on his face with a mewl and against your conscious will, which was wearing thin by the second. All of your limbs felt heavier, looser, you blinked slowly, only for your eyes to get back their focus on the fly on his pants, getting undone by flesh and metal.

"See how good it is when you behave?"

Tears welled your eyes again when you realized what he was doing, hovering over you pushing his bottoms down just enough to free, quite literally, the biggest cock you've ever come in contact with.

It hung heavy and thick from his waist, red with want as he kissed under your ear. "S'gonna feel so good, sweetheart. You'll see." He reached down and grabbed the base of his dick, rubbing the head up and down your puffy slit.

He kissed you, all tongue and teeth and you've never been disgusted to taste yourself before, but the fact that the wetness was proof of your own betrayal made it bitter.

"Please, you don't have to do this, please, don't!— ah!" Begging so sweet just wasn't enough, cause he knew your body was begging sweeter. He pushed in, blunt head of his cock breaching you open.

"Fuck! No, no, no, please!"

"More?" He pushed in another inch. "Well, sure, angel, anything for my eager little slut."

"No! Stop! I- mmmnnghhh!" He pushed all the way in until he felt your folds on his pubic bone. You eyes closed in pain and he grabbed your face to make you sit still.

"No hidin' from me, darling. C'mon. Look at me." Your brows were scrunched up in discomfort, disgust, glossed over lips shining up at him. Teary eyes spilling. "Crying so pretty f'me."

He pulled out, then pushed back in, whimper coming out of you along with the feeling of the sting from his thickness. "Yeah? Jus'like that."

"Please, just—" Your words came out muffled by his hand squeezing your cheeks together.

He chuckled, as if that wasn't the worst thing that ever happened to you. "Please, what? Fuck this pussy harder? Being too soft, too caring, too good to you?"

You had no answer. "If you keep being good maybe I'll give you my cum. Mm? You'd like that wouldn't you?"

"No, I'm not on— please—"His fingers stopped bruising your thigh and started rubbing your clit, and he felt you clench around him. "Oh, she would."

Schlick. Schlick. Schlick.

"S'okay, pretty thing. Y'can feel good, nothing wrong with that." Except there was everything wrong with that. The more you pleaded the less the words felt like actual words to be said, and not just what you were supposed to say. "Feels so good having you wrapped around my cock."

You bit your lip to stop a moan from coming out and let out a whimper instead. "You can tell me, it'll be our little secret." Another punctuated thrust. "Feels good, doesn't it?"

You'd blame it on the wine if anyone asked. You'd blame it on your want and will to live. No one besides you and him would ever know you nodded when he asked you that, even less that you meant it. "Atta girl."

His other hand came to pull your bottom lip from between your teeth, way too gentle for what was actually going on. "Let me hear you, baby... Need it."

You released the flesh from its prison, and something between a moan and a yelp made its way out of your throat, scratching and burning in its wake. "Feels... so- oh! Good! Good.. So full."

He smirked against your breast, taking a nipple into his mouth. "Mmmhmm, and you don't want me to stop, d'you?"

You shook your head fast. "Please..."

"Please, what?"

A beat of silence.

And then surrender. "Please, don't stop." If your voice was any quieter, it would be silent.

Whatever demon possessed Bucky in that second, it had teeth so pretty you just wanted him to sink them into your skin and eat you whole.

He kissed you more forcefully, and this time you kissed him back, arms straining against the restraint, legs tightening around his waist, moaning into his mouth when he spoke to you. "There she is. Was that so hard, sweetheart?"

Your eyes rolled back when he put your legs over his shoulder, kissing the inside of your knee before leaning over you and pressing his chest against yours. "Pussy so good, gonna make me cream all over it."

Another clench, and the chuckle vibrated deep in his chest, making your nipples harden more in the process. "What was all that "no" nonsense, hmm?"

"I don't...?" Your head was spinning. Swimming in a sea of oxytocin and whatever roofie he definitely put in your wine.

"S'okay, you don't have to do anything but what I say." His thrusts got erratic, faltering, almost as if he was holding himself back from falling from a precipice he wanted to jump off of with you in his arms. "Can feel y'choking me."

"So— fuck, I'm so close, please."

"Gotta ask nice, baby. You've been trouble tonight." If he was any deeper inside of you he would literally split you in half. You were sure you'd be sore for at least a fucking week.

"Please let me cum on your cock, please." Your tears tasted different now, like he finally tainted something good, spilled red wine on white silk. "I'll be good, I promise! Ah!" A specially harsh thrust made you hesitate.

"Don't know if you deserve it, angel..."

"Please!" You were sobbing now, raw burn of his fingers against your clit driving you mad, you were so close you could taste it. "I'll be good! I'll comply!"

That snapped something inside of him. Whether it was familiarity, rage, or whatever other blindly carnal feeling it was, it made Bucky see red, bloodthirsty to wring every single drop of free will from you.

"Y'promise?" You nodded. Please, please, please. "Slova, kukla." Words, doll.

"Da." Yes. You bit your lip again, straining your neck to look up at him so closely your lips brushed when you talked.

"Gotovyy?" Ready?

"Ya gotova otvechat'" Ready to comply.

His fingers rubbed harder, both deeper and faster circles, and his hips did not cease their movements driving his cock in and out of you. Every drag of his leaking head inside of you felt like fireworks exploding inside of your veins.

He bit your lip so hard when you came around him that it bled, and his tongue soothed the skin.

He fucked you through your orgasm, and pulled out much too soon for your liking, leaving you empty with a whine from you and a dissatisfied groan from him. "Don't think you deserve my cum t'day, angel." What the actual fuck was wrong with you? "Next time, yeah?"

Next time?

Why did your pussy throb at that?

His flesh hand came to jerk himself off on top of you while the metal one kept your thighs spread for him, it took barely any time for him to spill thick ropes across your lower stomach and pussy with a groan of your name and sweat glistening on his forehead.

"Y'look good all painted with my cum."

You didn't realize your eyes were closed until you forced them open in response to his fingers tickling your stomach, playing with his cum, dragging the thick fluid further down and smearing it over your spent folds.

She's not even as spent as he could make her.

You moaned in response, and your gaze caught his. Without looking away he repeated the motion, except he pushed it further down, stuffing his cum inside of you, contradicting himself.

"That's it, sweet thing... Just take it." You really couldn't do much of anything else. If the roofie didn't turn your brain to mush, the two orgasms and the 19% wine would've done the trick just fine.

His voice seemed so far away, but so close. Like a siren calling out your name ready to drown you in damnation. "Fuck, look so good all used up."

You felt the coil in your belly tighten again, not even you with the hottest of audios had gotten yourself over the edge and back at it again so fast. "Too much." You tried to squirm away, but his grip was too strong.

"Never too much, baby." He put a third finger in and rubbed the heel of his hand against your clit every time his palm slapped down as he went all the way in. "Just right."

You might've been the first human being ever to see your own frontal lobe live. Or at least that's what you through when your eyes rolled back again and you became a babbling mess under him, soaking his fingers and the sheets beneath you.

The next day, he was gone just as swiftly as he had come in. Nothing was out of place, everything was perfectly normal save for the throbbing ache between your legs and the cum stain in your sheets.

Like it hadn't been the best thing that's ever happened to you.

Months later, when he was chasing Steve down the causeway in Washington, he didn't even remember you. His hand wrapped around your throat and threw you onto a parked car's windshield like he hadn't made you face the deepest, darkest parts of yourself.

A/N: ANYWAYYYYYYY thanks to the BWA for freaking out with me over this. Hopefully we all got wet together <3 I have too much free time and a mind much too dark. thanks @heldbybarnes for telling me to write this <3 I literally gave myself a 4k word cap and this monstrosity came to life. I make plan, @houseofhyde laughs in my face:

Because he’s the adult, damn it. He’s the adult and there’s no time for his questions.

“S’okay, sweetheart. Go back to the bathroom and pretend you’re still in the shower.” “But Bucky-“

“It’ll be fine,” he couldn’t be more gentle cutting you off and pulling out “go, it’s okay” and with legs that rival a baby deer’s first steps, you tiptoe to the bathroom, clenching your thighs with his cum still leaking out of you.

Bucky is in his room and his head is swimming. Your perfume is in his sheets and-

His sheets.

His mother. Fucking. Sheets.

He stood pacing around the room, his cock softening from release, and looks at his bed. And there it is.

The faint red splotch that proves what a filthy old man he is.

He tossed them in the hamper and pulled out new ones for the bed, he’d deal with that later.

You look at yourself in the mirror and you are absolutely sure you’re dreaming. your hair is pointing everywhere, there’s faint red marks around your neck and the sting of his beard is still against your clavicle. You hear Winnie downstairs and Bucky call out to her from the second floor, his voice fading like he’s making his way down the staircase. “Did you get those garlic knots too, sweetie?”

Who gives a fuck about garlic knots? Your brain is in knots!!!! You just lost your virginity to you best friend’s dad. Like, the guy who used to carpool you to soccer.

Winnie would be so pissed.

That’s the only thing that keeps playing in your head. You take a deep breath, and a metric ton of toilet paper later, there’s no more cum leaking out of you. You wrapped yourself in the towel again, and walked to your room. Baggy shirt and shorts it is.

You went down to join everyone else, grabbing yourself a slice of pizza while Winnie put a margarita in your hand. “You took a really long shower.” Fuck- you don’t even know half of it.

“Had to exfoliate and shave my legs.” Was the best excuse you came up with before shoving a pizza slice in your mouth to prevent from saying anything stupid.

Bucky’s eyes hadn’t left your frame. It was like you were a puzzle he was trying to solve. If anyone looked at him long enough they could hear the cogs turning in his head.

What the fuck did you do. What. In the holiest of the holy fucks did you do. How could you be so fucking stupid? She basically told you without so many words that she was a virgin.

No one ever came close.

Only you. Only ever you.

God what a dick he was. There is a special place in hell for him. Deep in the eighth circle in a river of sulfur.

“Can you do my hair for that bonfire tonight? Your braids are the best” he saw Winnie break you out of your trance. “Y-yeah. Yeah, I can. It’ll be fun!” You fake a smile like you’re not three seconds away from hyperventilating.

What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck.

“Dad are you gonna hang out with Uncle Sam tonight?” It was Bucky’s turn to be brought out of his own head, taking a second to swallow the bite of pizza he had in his mouth.

“Yeah, let me know if you need me to pick you up, just don’t get in a car with a drunk on the wheel, please.” Winnie rolled her eyes, she knew better than that.

“Well, duh!”

By the time the sun dipped low, the backyard glowed gold-orange, tiki torches flickering against the dusk. A firepit crackled at the center of the lawn, the air thick with woodsmoke and the tang of cheap tequila.

Winnie was perched on a log bench, a beer in hand, legs bouncing as she laughed with two of her friends. You sat behind her on a blanket, fingers weaving her hair into the careful braids she’d asked for.

It should’ve been easy. Familiar. You’d done this a hundred times before. But tonight your hands trembled. Every brush of hair against your fingers brought back the feel of Bucky’s hands holding you down just hours earlier, the burn of his beard against your skin.

“You’re shaking,” Winnie teased, glancing back with a grin. “Gonna butcher my hair, huh?”

You forced a laugh, tugging gently at a strand. “It’ll be fine. You’ll look perfect.”

“’Course she will,” one of her friends chimed in, tipsy already. “Y/N always makes us look cute.”

Winnie giggled, bumping her shoulder against you. “Best friend duties.”

Your chest squeezed at the words. Best friend. If she knew what you’d done with her dad on those sheets upstairs… You blinked hard, fingers moving faster, tying off the braid before your tears could fall.

Sam’s apartment was quiet, the TV murmuring low in the corner, a game flickering across the screen. The smell of takeout wings hung in the air, beer bottles sweating on the coffee table.

Sam leaned back into his couch, one arm sprawled across the cushion, grinning like he had all the time in the world. “Man, you look like hell.”

Bucky snorted, tugging at the label of his beer. “Thanks.”

“Seriously. What’s crawled under your skin this time?”

Bucky shook his head, eyes fixed on the condensation dripping down the glass. “Nothin’. Just… tired.”

Sam licked sauce off his fingers, eyes narrowing at the way Bucky hadn’t said more than two words in twenty minutes.

“You know what this is, right?”

Bucky didn’t look up. “What’s what.”

“This.” Sam waved at him with a chicken wing. “You sittin’ there like a dog that pissed on the carpet. All guilty, broody. I’ve seen it before.”

Bucky grunted, taking a slow sip of beer. “You think you know me that well, huh?”

Sam smirked. “Please. I know when you’re hiding something. And right now, you’re hiding someone.”

That made Bucky’s head snap up, blue eyes sharp. “What?”

“A girl.” Sam leaned back, smug. “Has to be. Only reason a man gets that look. You got a girl, don’t you?”

Bucky shook his head quickly, jaw tight. “No.”

“Uh-huh. And I’m the Queen of England.” Sam chuckled, leaning forward. “C’mon, Buck. Who is she? You gettin’ laid, finally?”

The tips of Bucky’s ears burned. He looked away, tearing the label on his bottle again, his silence saying more than words ever could.

Sam’s grin widened. “Knew it. Don’t even have to say anything. I can see it. The late nights, the distracted look, the way you haven’t been snarling as much. You’re seein’ somebody.”

Bucky muttered, almost to himself: “Not the way you think.”

That made Sam pause, brows raising. “What the hell does that mean?”

Bucky scrubbed a hand down his face, groaning low. “Nothin’, Sam. Just—drop it.” But Sam didn’t drop things. Not when he smelled blood in the water.

Sam leaned back on the couch, wiping his hands with a napkin, giving Bucky that smug side-eye like he was about to go in for the kill.

“Alright, let me guess.” He pointed his beer bottle at him. “It’s some pretty young thing, isn’t it? That’s why you’re actin’ all cagey. Got yourself a girl half your age makin’ you blush again?”

Bucky’s grip tightened on his bottle until the glass squeaked. He froze, shoulders locking, jaw ticking hard enough Sam noticed.

Sam laughed, not catching the way Bucky’s stomach turned. “Yeah, I see it. Christ, Buck. Didn’t think you had it in you. You dog.”

“Shut up,” Bucky muttered, looking away, ears hot.

Sam’s grin widened. “Oh my god. I’m right. That’s why you’re sittin’ there lookin’ like you committed a crime. You found yourself a hot little college girl, didn’t you? Bet she’s got you wrapped around her finger.”

Bucky shot him a glare sharp enough to kill, his voice low and dangerous. “Enough, Sam.”

That sobered him a little. Sam blinked, raising his brows. “Whoa. Hey. I’m jokin’. You don’t gotta bite my head off.”

Bucky shoved a hand down his face, groaning, trying to breathe past the guilt burning up his chest. “Just—don’t talk about it.”

Sam tilted his head, studying him. The tension in Bucky’s body, the way his eyes refused to meet his.

“…Buck,” Sam said more carefully now, “you didn’t actually go and do somethin’ stupid, did you?”

Bucky’s silence was deafening.

He grabbed another wing, hoping Sam would let it die. But his mind was already spinning, replaying your soft voice in the bathroom mirror, your thighs trembling under his hands, and the red stain on his sheets that he couldn’t scrub out of his conscience.

And then his phone buzzed. And he mumbled something to Sam about having to go be a responsible adult.

How he ended up here, he doesn’t know. well… he does. He fucked around and found out. he let himself give in to his darkest little secret and took advantage of the sweet little thing that Winnie invited home all the time.

He pulled up to the beachfront by the old lifeguard tower just like you asked on your text. “can you please pick me up? i dont feel well” and he was in his car with enough speed that his next Halloween costume should be The Flash.

You were sitting by the curb, eyes looking up as soon as you heard the familiar sound of his car engine. Your arms were hugging your torso and your hair was blowing in the wind. When you sat down on the passenger seat and murmured a “thank you” he could swear your voice sounded like you were crying.

“Are you okay?” and you just nodded.

“Can you just take me home, please?”

And so he did. he drove through 5 traffic lights, not that he counted or anything, in absolute silence, while you looked away from him and out the window.

You got out of the car in a hurry once he took the keys off of the ignition, both of you walked into the house with him a couple toes behind you, keys clattering on the bowl by the entryway. “What happened?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to leave, and Winnie wanted to stay, and you were our ride so-“

“Nothing doesn’t make you cry on the beach in the dark. don’t lie to me.” You were a couple steps up the carpeted stairway when he said that, making you turn around and look down at him as he walked closer.

“You! This! This is whats wrong, we’re wrong! We fucked up” your voice was fast, almost like you needed to say it now or otherwise you’d lose courage “You’re my best friend’s dad, do you get that? If Winnie finds out she’ll never forgive me. Ever. She’ll never forgive you.” Your voice wavered, like that was the part that hurt you the most. And he wanted to die for making you feel like that.

“You’ve known me since I was a kid. You’ve grilled my stupid boyfriends at the door, you’ve made pancakes for sleepovers, you’ve sat at the head of the table like the safe, boring dad you’re supposed to be. And now- now I can’t even look at you without thinking about your hands on me, or your mouth, or-“ your eyes were burning at this point, and you didn’t notice he was now within arms reach when he interrupted you.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were a virgin?” The moonlight was hitting his eyes in a way that you felt like you bared your souls to him without even saying a word. Like he knew what was going on inside your head before é you even said it. “Why did you let me do that to you? to be so rough so-“ he rubbed a hand down his face in frustration. “Why?”

His hand went up to rest at your face, thumb resting my your lip while his palm was at your jaw and neck. You avoided his gaze like you’d say something wrong if you looked into his eyes for too long. “Mm?” he wasn’t prepared for the answer. He doesn’t know what he expected but it wasn’t “Because I wanted *you*” and your eyes lifted up to meet his “it was always supposed to be you.”

Well, fuck.

His eyes softened, and he pulled you in for a kiss. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was messy, desperate, all the guilt and hunger and inevitability crashing together as his mouth devoured yours.

And even as your tears streaked down your face, you kissed him back — because no matter how wrong it was, no matter how dangerous, it had always been him.

The kiss was frantic, all teeth and heat, your back hitting the wall by the landing as his body pressed into yours. His hands shook against your face, his breath ragged.

“Bucky—” you rasped against his mouth, even as he kissed you again, harder. “We shouldn’t—fuck—we shouldn’t be doing this.”

But you dragged him closer, your nails curling into his shirt, pulling it tight across his chest. “Cant,” he whispered, your lips swollen, his eyes wild. He groaned, head dropping to your shoulder, his teeth grazing your skin. His grip on your hips was iron. “Can’t. Christ, I can’t stop.”

Your knees buckled when he hauled you up the next few steps, your back pressed against the carpeted riser. His mouth trailed down your neck, teeth scraping, tongue soothing over the marks.

“You’re killin’ me,” he muttered, his voice broken between kisses, between groans. “My little girl’s best friend—fuck, what the hell is wrong with me—”

But his hands were already tugging your shorts down, fumbling with his sweats.

You whimpered, your thighs trembling as he pressed you back onto the steps, the rough carpet scratching your skin. “Bucky, please—”

“Shhh, baby, I got you.” He caught your mouth again, swallowing the plea, his hands frantic as he freed himself, guiding your legs open with a desperate urgency.

The first push of him back inside you tore a cry from your throat, your hands clawing at his shoulders.

“Fuck—sorry, sweetheart—” he groaned, burying himself to the hilt, his forehead pressed against yours. “I’m sorry—ruinin’ everything—but God, you feel so good—”

Your hips arched to meet his, the words tumbling out of you before you could stop them. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

That broke him.

His thrusts turned messy, brutal, the steps creaking under the rhythm as he drove into you, his voice cracking with every stroke.

“Sorry I’m weak—sorry I can’t let you go—” His hand slid up to hold your jaw, forcing your eyes on him. “Look at me, baby. Wanna see your pretty face.”

Your breath hitched, tears slipping down your cheeks as your body clenched around him, the burn and stretch overwhelming. And still he whispered between groans, between sloppy kisses.

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry—but you’re mine now. Always fuckin’ mine.”

The carpet burned your back, the house was too quiet, and Winnie’s laughter from the night before still echoed in your head — but none of it mattered. Not when his body was breaking you open, not when his voice cracked with guilt and want in equal measure.

Because the truth was out, and there was no stopping now.

You whimpered, nails clawing into his back, legs wrapping tighter around his waist. “Bucky—please—”

“God—” he groaned, kissing you harsh, sloppy, his teeth catching your lip. His thrusts grew deeper, harder, shaking the banister beside you. “I shouldn’t—shouldn’t be doin’ this to you—”

But your body betrayed your words, arching into him, clenching so tight around him it dragged a guttural moan from his throat.

“You feel so good, baby,” he rasped, his jaw tight as he cupped your cheek, forcing your teary eyes on his. “So fuckin’ good. How am I supposed to stop?”

Your chest heaved, words tumbling out broken “Don’t. Don’t stop.”

That undid him.

His thrusts turned brutal, reckless, the obscene slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the stairwell. The wet sounds of you taking him filled the house, vulgar and loud, drowning out every thought except more, more, more.

You cried out, your back arching off the carpet as your climax tore through you, trembling under his weight.

“F-fuck—there it is—good girl,” he groaned, hips stuttering as your walls clenched around him. “You’re squeezin’ me so tight—gonna cum—fuck—”

He buried himself to the hilt, grinding deep as he spilled inside you with a guttural groan, his whole body shuddering over yours.

“Sorry, sorry—” he panted, forehead pressed to yours, his cock twitching inside you.

Bucky lingered for a moment more, still buried deep inside you, then forced himself to pull back with a low groan. The loss made you whimper, your thighs sticky with him, and his heart twisted hard.

“I got you.” He murmured it like a prayer as he gathered you up into his arms, lifting you off the steps as though you weighed nothing. Your legs instinctively clung around his waist, your face buried in his shoulder.

He carried you upstairs, each creak of the steps a reminder of what you’d just done. He nudged his bedroom door shut with his foot, setting you gently on the edge of the bed before grabbing a towel from the en suite.

“Easy now,” he soothed, kneeling between your knees as he wiped you clean, careful, gentle, his thumb brushing your skin whenever you flinched. “I know it stings, baby. I’m sorry. I should’ve been softer.”

You watched him through blurry eyes, your chest aching at the sight of him — this man who just fucked you raw on the stairs now cleaning you up like you were fragile.

When he finished, he tossed the towel aside, tugging the blanket back so you could crawl under. He slipped in beside you, pulling you close against his chest, his hand stroking your hair.

“Breathe with me,” he whispered, his lips brushing your crown. His heartbeat thundered under your ear, steady and grounding.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he murmured again, his hand cupping your cheek now. “For everything. For not stoppin’. For makin’ you carry this with me.” His thumb brushed your swollen lip. “You deserve better than sneakin’ around in the dark.”

The sheets were warm, soft, smelling like him — like you. His arm was a heavy band across your waist, his body wrapped around you like he was scared you’d vanish if he let go.

The silence stretched. Not awkward, not entirely, but heavy. Thick with the weight of what you’d done, what it meant, what came next.

You shifted in his hold, pressing your cheek into his chest. “We can’t keep doing this,” you whispered, voice hoarse from crying, from kissing, from everything.

Bucky exhaled slowly, his hand tracing lazy circles on your hip. “I know.”

But he didn’t sound like he meant it. Not fully.

Your throat burned. “Winnie will hate me. If she finds out…”

“She won’t,” he cut in quickly, firmly, his jaw tight. “We won’t let her.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, your eyes shining in the low light. “You make it sound so simple. Like it’s not gonna eat me alive, going back to school with her tomorrow. Pretending nothing happened.”

His thumb brushed your cheek, tender. “Sweetheart, I know it’s not simple. But… I can’t regret it. Not when it’s you.”

Your chest squeezed. God, the way he looked at you — like you were something he’d been starving for his whole life.

“You’ve known me since I was a kid,” you whispered, a tremor in your voice. “And now I’m lying in your bed, and all I can think about is…” You trailed off, shaking your head.

His forehead pressed to yours, his voice low, wrecked. “I know. It’s fucked. I’m fucked. But you’re not a kid anymore. And I can’t pretend I don’t want you.”

Tears pricked at your eyes again, but you nodded, almost against your own will. “So what do we do?”

Bucky held your gaze, his hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your lip like he couldn’t stop touching you.

“You go back to school with her tomorrow,” he said quietly. “Act normal. Don’t give her a reason to look twice.” He swallowed, the words tasting bitter. “And when you can… when it’s safe… you come back to me.”

Your breath caught, your lip trembling. “Like nothing happened?”

He shook his head slowly. “Like everything happened. But it’s our secret. Just ours.” You stared at him, searching for something in his eyes, and what you found made your chest ache: guilt, yes, but also devotion.

“I don’t want to lose her,” you whispered.

“You won’t,” he promised, though his voice cracked. “I won’t let you.”

The silence settled again, softer this time, and he kissed your forehead before tucking you closer. His heartbeat steadied under your ear, the rhythm lulling you.

And even though the morning would mean pretending, for tonight, you let yourself believe him.

Weeks slipped by in a blur of classes, late-night study sessions, and campus routines that looked perfectly normal from the outside. To anyone watching, nothing had changed between you and Winnie. You were still the best friends who walked to class together, shared lattes before lectures, sprawled across the library floor with your laptops open and earbuds in.

But inside, everything was different.

Because now there was a line drawn through your life — one side in the light, one side in the shadows.

In the daylight, you braided Winnie’s hair while she rambled about the guy in her Econ class, laughing with her like you always had. You sat side by side in the cafeteria, trading bites of dessert, and hummed along to her Spotify playlists while she got ready for class. You played your role so well, no one would ever think to question it.

But when your phone buzzed in your pocket, your heart leapt. You knew who it was without looking.

At night, in the quiet of your dorm room, the divide grew sharper. Winnie would be curled under her blanket, mascara smudged from whatever party she’d dragged you to, whispering drowsy promises of “We’ll never keep secrets from each other, right?” And you’d whisper back, “Promise,” even as your phone lit up on the nightstand.

Mr. Speer. In honor of the former president that shared a name with him.

That’s what his name looked like when she glanced over once and laughed, telling you to “say hi.” And you had — your heart racing while you answered his call from the bathroom a few minutes later, whispering against the tile, “I can’t talk long, she’s right outside,” and hearing him murmur back, low and gravelly, “Just needed to hear you, sweetheart.”

Mornings came with his check-ins, simple but steady. Eat something before class. Don’t argue. Afternoons brought teasing questions. How’s my girl holding up? Nights… nights were worse. Because at night, his restraint snapped.

Can’t stop thinking about you in my bed. About the way you squeeze me so fuckin’ tight. You’re all I want.

You’d bury your face in your pillow, biting your lip to keep quiet while Winnie slept a few feet away, your phone hot in your hands, your body aching with every word.

And still, you kept up the performance. You were the same Y/N to everyone else — loyal, dependable, the best friend at Winnie’s side.

But inside? Every text, every secret call, every stolen whisper was pulling you deeper into something you couldn’t escape.

In the student lounge, Winnie was scrolling her phone when someone from her English class plopped into the seat beside her.

“Hey, random question,” the girl said, sipping her iced coffee. “Was your dad visiting tonight?”

Winnie blinked. “What? No. Why?”

“I swear I saw him over by the west lot. Jeep looked just like his.” The girl shrugged. “Guess it was someone else who looked like him.”

Winnie laughed, shaking her head. “Yeah, must’ve been. My dad’s, like… the last person you’d see creeping around campus.”

And out in the west lot, her dad was buried inside her best friend, whispering filth against her lips.

The Jeep rocked faintly in the dark campus lot, windows fogging fast, the engine still idling low.

You were spread across Bucky’s lap, straddling him in the front seat, hoodie shoved up, your bare thighs squeezing his hips. His hands were everywhere — one gripping your ass, the other palming your breast under your shirt, thumb brushing your nipple until you whimpered.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned against your mouth as you sank down on him again, his cock stretching you wide. “Tightest little pussy… Christ. Can’t believe you’re ridin’ me out here like this.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders as you bounced in his lap, the steering wheel knocking against your back with every movement. Your whimpers turned to moans, loud in the cramped car, and you didn’t bother biting them back.

“B-Bucky—”

“Say it louder,” he rasped, thrusting up into you so hard the Jeep jolted. “Let anyone walk by and know who’s makin’ you feel this good.”

You moaned his name again, shameless, your head tipping back as your pace grew frantic. The slap of skin against skin filled the car, wet and obscene.

His mouth latched onto your throat, sucking bruises into your skin. “Goddamn, you look so pretty ridin’ my cock. Don’t care if someone sees. Let ‘em. Let the whole fuckin’ world know you’re mine.”

Your hips rolled, grinding down hard, and his groan rumbled against your neck. He guided you faster, harder, until your thighs shook and the windows rattled.

“Always wanted this,” you panted, your nails dragging down his back. “Wanted to feel you inside me like this—”

Bucky’s hand snapped to your jaw, forcing your gaze on him, his own eyes wild. “You wanted me? Here I am, baby. All yours. Take what you need.”

Your lips crashed to his, messy and hot, your cries spilling into his mouth as your body clenched tight around him.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, his hips jerking up into you. “Cum for me, sweetheart. Show me how much you love Daddy’s cock.”

You shattered, your nails digging crescents into his shoulders as you sobbed his name, grinding down until your release soaked his thighs.

His own groan broke ragged and guttural, his hips snapping up one last time before he spilled deep inside you. “Christ—mine. All fuckin’ mine.”

The car stilled except for the sound of your ragged breaths. Your forehead pressed to his, sweat-slick and trembling.

And then you both laughed — quiet, breathless — like you’d just remembered you were supposed to be a secret.

But neither of you moved to hide, not when your skin was still marked with each other’s hands, not when your bodies still clung together like you never wanted to separate.

The car was still rocking faintly, windows fogged, the air thick with sex. You were slumped against Bucky’s chest, sweat cooling, his cock still buried deep inside you as you caught your breath.

That’s when his phone lit up on the dash.

Winnie.

Your stomach dropped.

Bucky cursed under his breath, snatching the phone. He smoothed his palm down your back, pressing you closer to keep you quiet, his voice snapping low and firm. “Don’t make a sound.”

You whimpered softly, still stretched around him, the movement making him grit his teeth. He thumbed the screen and brought the phone to his ear.

“Hey, kid,” he said, his voice suddenly calm, casual — like he wasn’t buried to the hilt inside her best friend.

“Dad? Where are you?” Winnie’s voice was bright, a little distracted, music faint in the background.

Bucky leaned back against the seat, eyes locked on yours as his thumb stroked slow circles into your hip. “Home. In my office. Why?”

“Oh,” Winnie said, sounding distracted. “Weird. Somebody swore they saw your Jeep near campus, but it must’ve been someone else.”

Bucky’s lips brushed your temple as he murmured, smooth as glass, “Yeah, must’ve been. Haven’t moved all night.”

You clenched around him involuntarily, and his jaw ticked as he fought to keep his voice even.

“Okay, well, I was just checking in. I’ll be home this weekend — love you, bye!.”

“Alright, kiddo. Have fun. Be safe. Love you too.” His eyes burned into yours as he hung up, the call ending with a soft click.

The second the line went dead, his smirk widened. “You hear that?” His hand slid down your ass, squeezing. “She thinks I’m sittin’ at home in my office, meanwhile her best friend’s full of my cock in the middle of a parking lot.”

You buried your face in his neck, half mortified, half trembling from how hot it was.

“Sweetheart,” he rasped, rocking his hips up just enough to make you gasp, “you keep squeezin’ me like that and I’m not lettin’ you off this lap anytime soon.”

The Jeep’s windows were fogged over, the soft thrum of False God wrapping around you both. You were straddled over him still, moving slow, deliberate, his hands guiding you, his eyes locked on yours.

“God, sweetheart…” his voice was low, but wrecked too. “Look at you—on my cock like you were made for me.”

You gasped, rolling your hips deeper, your nails scratching lightly at his shoulders. “Always wanted this,” you whispered, your voice shaky but sure. “Missed you so much.”

Bucky’s chest heaved, his jaw tight. “Yeah? Thought about me fuckin’ you like this? While you were away at school?”

Your face burned, your head tipping back with a soft moan. “Y-yes—oh, god, yes.”

“Tell me.” His hand cradled the back of your head, forcing your eyes to his. “What’d you think about, baby?”

Your lip trembled, but the words spilled anyway. “Thought about sneaking into your room, climbing in your bed. Thought about you pushing me down and filling me up—”

“Christ,” he groaned, pulling you down into a bruising kiss before whispering against your lips, “And now you’ve got me. You’re takin’ every fuckin’ inch of me, like a good girl.”

You whimpered, grinding slower, savoring the stretch. “So full, Bucky. You feel so good. No one else could ever—”

He cut you off with a thrust up into you that had your voice breaking. “That’s right. No one else. Just me.” His lips brushed your ear, his words dark and filthy. “You’re sittin’ here in my Jeep, ridin’ me slow while your best friend’s got no clue her daddy’s fuckin’ you stupid.”

Your body clenched hard around him, your nails digging into his hair as you gasped, “Don’t—don’t say it like that—”

He smirked against your neck, thrusting deep again, making you cry out. “Why not? You love it. Love bein’ my dirty little secret.”

“Fuck—” you whimpered, rocking against him, your body trembling. “I do. I love it. I love being yours.”

His hand slid down your spine, gripping your ass to help you ride him smoother, deeper. “That’s my girl. So wet for me. So perfect. Gonna cum on my cock, sweetheart?” He said that like he didn’t know that his thumb over your clit wasn’t gonna tip him over the edge.

Your head tipped back, your moans filling the cab. “Y-yes, yes, please—I need it—”

He caught your chin, forcing you to keep your eyes on his. “Say it. Say whose cock’s makin’ you feel this good.”

“Yours,” you gasped, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from the intensity. “It’s always been yours, Bucky. Always.”

His thrusts grew sloppy, his forehead pressing to yours, both of you trembling, the song pulsing around you like a heartbeat.

“Good girl,” he groaned, his voice breaking as he held you close. “Cum for me, baby. Cum on me so I can fill this tight little pussy and make you mine all over again.”

And with his words in your ear, you shattered, clinging to him like you’d drown without him — while his own release followed, deep and hot, his mouth spilling praise against your skin.

The screen door creaks, grocery bags digging into Bucky’s hands as he shoulders inside. He drops them on the counter with a grunt, wiping sweat from his brow. The faint pulse of music drifts in from the backyard, followed by laughter—Winnie’s laugh, bright and familiar, mixed with a chorus of others.

He wanders to the glass doors. Just a glance.

There they are—his daughter and her friends, sprawled across loungers in bikinis, sunglasses glinting, drinks sweating on the deck.

But then his gaze snags on you.

You’re lying on your stomach, skin glowing in the sun, sunglasses slipping down your nose. And your bikini top… untied. The strings hang loose across your back, leaving the smooth line of your spine bare.

Bucky swallows hard. Jesus Christ.

He knows he should look away. Knows he shouldn’t notice the curve of your waist, the swell of your hips, the way your hair tumbles across your shoulders. Knows he shouldn’t wonder what you’d do if he walked out there and tied that knot himself.

“Ladies,” he calls, forcing his voice steady, gruff. “Winnie, do you mind helping with the groceries?”

Groans. Complaints. Winnie waves him off without looking. “Five minutes, Dad!”

And then you reach back to retie the strings and push up onto your elbows. “I’ll come in,” you say, smiling faintly. “Can’t let the ice cream melt, Winnie.”

Bucky freezes. For a heartbeat too long, all he can think is: fuck. You grin like you don’t notice the way his jaw tightens, like you’re just being playful.

Christ almighty. He has to force his eyes up, has to focus on the sliding door instead of the way your legs carry you across the deck.

Inside, the cool air hits his skin as you pass by him. He catches the faint whiff of coconut sunscreen and sun-warmed skin, and it’s enough to make his stomach clench.

He doesn’t say a word. Can’t.

But as he lingers in the kitchen doorway, watching you bend to pick up one of the grocery bags, his mind is anything but quiet.

You bent to grab one of the grocery bags, catching sight of him leaning against the counter out of the corner of your eye. His arms were crossed now, biceps flexing under the fabric of his t-shirt, blue eyes tracking your every move like he was trying not to.

You swallowed, focusing on unpacking. Chips into the pantry. Milk into the fridge. Normal. Totally normal.

But your brain wouldn’t stop. What would his hands feel like on your waist? What would he do if you asked him to retie your bikini for you?

Behind you, Bucky’s thoughts weren’t any steadier. He told himself to look away, to focus on the receipt sticking out of the bag, but every time you stretched up on your toes to put something on a higher shelf, the hem of your bikini bottoms shifted and his pulse spiked.

She’s just a kid. Except she’s not. She’s 22. She’s 23 years younger than him. She’s basically a fetus. Winnie’s best friend. Don’t you dare—

The sound of your laugh snapped him out of it. You glanced over your shoulder, smiling easy. “You always buy this much cereal, or is this a special occasion?”

He grunted, forcing his voice casual. “You kids eat like wolves. Figure it’s safer to keep the place stocked.”

You nodded, turning back, but your lips tugged upward. He noticed you. He so noticed you.

The next couple of days went by without much commotion. Pool, TikTok, Instagram, drinks, food, pool, TikTok… you get the idea.

The hum of the refrigerator and the soft click of Winnie spreading peanut butter were the only sounds in the kitchen. You leaned against the counter, scrolling your phone, trying not to die of boredom while she made the world’s slowest sandwich.

The front door opened. Heavy footfalls. Then—Bucky.

He came in from his run, chest rising and falling, gray t-shirt plastered dark with sweat. His hair was damp, pushed back from his forehead, cheeks flushed from exertion. He didn’t look at you right away, heading straight to the fridge, yanking the door open and grabbing a cold bottle of water.

You felt him before you even looked up. That shift in the air when he walked into a room. Shoulders broad, shirt stretched across his back, muscles flexing as he twisted the cap.

Your eyes flicked up—and dragged down.

Oh my god. He’s literally a dilf. Stop. Focus. He’s your best friend’s dad. He’s—

The bottle tilted at his mouth, throat working as he drank. A bead of sweat slid down the side of his neck, disappearing under the collar of his shirt.

Your thighs pressed together before you could stop yourself.

“Y’want one?” His voice cut through your thoughts, gravelly and low from the run. He reached back into the fridge and held out another bottle, eyes landing on yours.

It was just a second. A second too long.

“Thanks,” you said quickly, taking it. Your fingers brushed his, calloused and hot from the run. A spark shot through you, sharp enough to make your stomach flip.

He turned away, shutting the fridge a little too hard.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about how soft her hand felt. Don’t think about her eyes on you.

He grabbed a dish towel from the counter, swiping it over his forehead, willing his body to calm down. Winnie hummed to herself, still fussing with her sandwich, completely oblivious.

And you? You cracked the cap on your bottle, heart still thudding, forcing your eyes back to your phone like nothing happened.

But the taste of cold water didn’t chase away the heat rising in your chest, or the thought you couldn’t shake:

If his hand feels that good brushing mine, what would it feel like everywhere else?

The next few days, it gnaws at both of you. Like a cat scratching the door wanting to come in. Like water slowly but surely dripping onto a rock for millennia, taking way micro specks of mineral at a time, until the rock is gone.

It’s movie night. Winnie picked something stupid and funny, the kind of movie where no one really pays attention. You’re on the couch, legs curled under you, Winnie beside you.

Bucky passes through with a towel over his shoulder, fresh from the shower. He smells like soap and cedar, hair damp, sweatpants low on his hips, and a shirt that looked much to soft to not be scrunched up in your hands.

You glance up just as he runs the towel over his neck.

Oh, fuck me. No. Don’t think about that. Don’t picture him pinning you to this couch. Don’t—

And you don’t even know what the movie was about, really. It was so boring after Mr. Barnes decided to go up to his room and let Winnie and you and your friends have free reign of the house, that you fell asleep.

And, of course you did, because why would God not want to punish Bucky? Why would God not already know Bucky was fighting with temptation every time he decided to not ruin both of your lives and drag you to his room, and instead jerked off in the shower feeling like a dirty old man as soon as his post-nut clarity hit?

No, God had to make you fall asleep in just a sleep shirt, with a throw blanked barely over your legs, on his couch. His motherfucking leather couch. He came down to get water, as usual, and saw you. Pretty, innocent, untouched. And if you hask him that’s not even the worst part, no, the worst was that you were on your stomach and your shirt was riding too high and the covers too low. Your ass was perfectly clad in a pair of black laced G-string that he had no business knowing you owned.

She’s Winnie’s best friend, you pervert. She’s a kid. Well, definitely not a kid. She’s twenty-two. Still… off limits! Off limits! Off limits!

He never grabbed water so fast in his life.

–

The next night was even worse.

The air was thick with the sweetness of summer—grass, chlorine, sunscreen, faint smoke from someone grilling two houses over. It was late, the kind of late where the sky had faded into that deep, endless indigo, but not quite dark. The cicadas buzzed, the pool lights shimmered.

You and Winnie and the other girls were sprawled around the pool in a lazy circle, drinks in hand, cheeks warm with alcohol. Laughter bubbled up in uneven bursts, the kind that only came when you were tipsy and happy.

Above, Bucky had his window cracked open.

He sat back in bed, baseball game muted on the TV, a glass of bourbon balanced on the nightstand. The breeze drifted through, carrying with it your voices. He told himself not to listen. He really did. But the sound of your laugh floated up clear as a bell, and his chest went tight before he could stop it.

“…okay, but seriously,” one of the girls was saying, giggling. “What’s your type?”

More laughter. Then your voice. “Don’t make me answer that.”

“You have to,” Winnie insisted, her words a little slurred with wine. “C’mon. Spill. We all did ours!”

Bucky tipped his head back against the wall, exhaling through his nose. He should close the window. Shouldn’t sit here waiting to hear what kind of guys you liked. Shouldn’t care.

But he did.

You sighed dramatically. “Fine. My type?” A pause, then your voice softened, teasing. “Older. Like… a lot older. Broad shoulders. Tall enough to make me feel small, strong enough to make me feel…” You trailed off, then laughed again, embarrassed. “Ugh, you know.”

The girls shrieked with laughter. “You mean, like a DILF,” one of them cackled.

“Shut up!” you groaned, face hot as you buried it in your hands. “I didn’t say that!”

“You meant it,” Winnie sing-songed, swatting your arm.

Bucky sat frozen in bed, glass of bourbon untouched. His pulse thudded in his ears, hand tightening against his thigh.

Christ almighty. She’s drunk. It’s just girl talk. Doesn’t mean a damn thing.

But your voice carried up again, softer this time, almost thoughtful. “It’s just… guys our age are so…” You hesitated, then muttered, “Boys. I don’t want a boy. I want a man.”

The chorus of giggles rose again, echoing across the water.

Bucky dragged a hand down his face, shutting his eyes tight.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about her saying that. Don’t picture her looking at you when she said it.

You got out of the pool, toweling off to go in and get a sweatshirt, the pool deck was warm beneath your legs, the glass in your hand sweating, the summer air buzzing with laughter and crickets. The wine had loosened everyone’s tongues, and the conversation had drifted from classes to hookups to types.

You’d already embarrassed yourself with the whole “older, manly, not boys” bit, and you were still recovering from the shrieking that followed when one of the girls piped up again.

“Oh my god, wait,” she said suddenly, eyes widening in mischief. “Do you guys remember—” She looked right at you. “—when you had that huge crush on Mr. Barnes?”

The world stopped.

Your face flamed hot. “Oh my god, stop!” You covered your face, nearly spilling your drink. “That was, like, forever ago!”

The girls erupted, laughing so loud it probably carried across the whole block.

“Forever ago my ass,” another teased. “You used to blush every time he said hi to you.”

“Shut up!” You covered your face with both hands, groaning into your palms. “That was so six years ago! Don’t bring it up! I was literally fifteen, I didn’t know what I was doing!”

“Ew, that’s my dad!” Winnie gasped, laughing so hard she almost choked on her drink. “Wait, that’s why you always volunteered to come over for dinner? You little creep!”

You buried your face deeper, but your voice was muffled and honest. “Okay, fine! Maybe I had a stupid little crush! But it’s not like I still…” You trailed off, heart stuttering, words catching in your throat.

The group howled with laughter, the teasing relentless, wine making everything funnier than it was.

But upstairs—

Bucky sat on the edge of his bed, bourbon glass forgotten in his hand, staring at the floor. He took a swing of his glass and set the bourbon aside, shoved the window closed harder than necessary, and leaned back against the headboard, jaw clenched.

Down by the pool, you were still laughing with the girls, but your chest was tight, your head spinning—not just from the wine, but from the truth in what you’d said.

God, get a grip, you scolded yourself. You’re literally crushing on your best friend’s dad.

The laughter still echoed behind you as you slipped inside, the screen door clapping shut. The cool air prickled your skin, still damp from the pool. You told yourself you were just going upstairs for a sweatshirt, maybe a charger, something.

But your head was fuzzy, cheeks warm, heart still pounding from the teasing.

God, a crush on Mr. Barnes. Six years ago. So embarrassing.

Your feet carried you up the stairs anyway, a little unsteady, the banister brushing your fingertips. You should’ve turned left, down the hall to the guest room.

But you didn’t.

When you stopped, blinking, you were staring at the half-open door at the end of the hall—light spilling from inside. His room. The TV murmured low, the glow flickering across the floorboards. And before you could think better of it, your drunk feet took you in.

Bucky sat propped against the headboard, hair pushed back, t-shirt stretched across his chest, game flickering muted on the TV. A glass of bourbon rested on the nightstand. His eyes flicked up the second you appeared.

“(Y/N)?” His brow furrowed. “What’re you doin’?”

Your mouth went dry. You scrambled for an excuse, any excuse, but all that came out was a soft, “I meant to go to my room.”

One of his brows arched. His jaw flexed. “This isn’t your room.”

“I know,” you whispered, leaning against the doorframe like your knees might give. You wanted to say you’d turn around, leave right now, but your lips didn’t move.

His gaze raked over you—hair damp, cheeks flushed from wine, pool cover-up sliding off one shoulder. He set the bourbon down slowly, deliberately, like he needed both hands free to keep himself in check.

“You’re drunk,” he said finally, voice low, even.

“Not that drunk,” you murmured. Your lips curved in a shaky smile. “Just… lost.” The silence stretched. The baseball game flickered, lights reflecting off the little salt and pepper on his beard. His chest rose and fell, heavy.

Bucky’s eyes snapped to yours the second you crossed his threshold. His jaw ticked, hands fisting against his thighs as if bracing himself.

“You okay?” His voice was low, gravelly, careful. “You shouldn’t be here, sweetheart.”

He exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand down his face.

Christ. She’s twenty-two. Winnie’s best friend. A kid compared to you. You don’t do this. You don’t think about her that way.

But the truth was already in his head—ugly, hot, undeniable. You, on your knees. You, spread out on this bed, ass up, begging.

His thighs flexed with the thought. He hated himself for it. “Go to bed,” he muttered, trying to sound firm. “Wrong room.”

But you didn’t leave. You padded closer instead, bare legs catching the blue glow of the TV. Damp hair clung to your neck, chlorine and coconut sunscreen carried with you. “Mr. Barnes,” you murmured, soft and tipsy, like you were letting his name slip for the very first time. Something in his chest twisted.

No. No, don’t listen to that. Don’t let it do things to you.

“Sweetheart,” he tried again, sharper now. “You gotta stop. I’m forty-five. You’re twenty-two. You’re my daughter’s best friend. You hear me? Nothing about this is okay.”

But you were already at the edge of the bed, climbing onto the mattress before he could stop you. The comforter bunched beneath your knees as you crawled toward him, your bikini bottom still damp from the pool, pressing into his duvet.

He froze. His whole body locked up, eyes locked on the darker patches you were leaving on his sheets with every shift of your hips. His throat went dry. You settled back onto your haunches, straddling him, heat rolling off you in waves. His hands hovered, unsure whether to grab you or push you away.

You tilted your head, lips curving into a knowing smile. “If it’s so wrong, why aren’t you making me leave?”

Bucky clenched his fists in the comforter instead of your skin, knuckles white. His whole body trembled with restraint.

Don’t do it. Don’t. She’s your little girl’s best friend. She’s twenty-two, a damn fetus compared to you. But Jesus, she’s right here. Wet and wanting. Crawling into your bed.

His eyes squeezed shut, but it didn’t help—he could smell your sunscreen, your perfume, the faint chlorine, and beneath it all: you. And when your damp thighs shifted again, leaving another dark mark on his sheets, a ragged groan tore out of him before he could choke it back.

Your face was flushed, lips parted, eyes glazed from wine and the heat of the night. You leaned in, slow, until your breath ghosted over his mouth.

You don’t do this. You don’t ruin her life because you can’t keep it in your pants.

“Sweetheart,” he rasped, voice shredded. “You gotta stop.”

But you didn’t. You leaned closer, mouth brushing his, not quite a kiss, just torture. “Why?” you breathed. “I’m right here.”

His hands flexed on the blanket, aching to grab you, to pin you down and finally take what he’d been denying himself. His eyes cracked open, blue blazing and tortured, staring at you like you were damnation and salvation wrapped together.

“Christ,” he muttered, chest heaving. “You don’t know what you’re askin’ for.”

Your smile was faint, dazed, wicked. “Two strings, Mr. Barnes,” you whispered, tugging lightly at the bow of your bikini top. “That’s all it takes. Just two strings, and I’m yours.”

His breath left him in a ragged groan, head tipping back against the wall like he was praying. He could feel your heat seeping through the comforter, knew his sheets would smell like you for days.

One tug. Two tugs. That’s all it would take. If he had a nickel for every time he said that.

His hand twitched, rising instinctively, hovering just shy of those strings like a man at the edge of a cliff. And it would be so easy. Flip you onto your back, strip you bare, finally bury himself inside you like he’s dreamed about.

So. Goddamn. Easy.

Bucky’s breathing was ragged, his chest heaving against yours as you leaned in, whispering right against his mouth. The faintest brush of your lips had his head spinning, his self-control fraying with every heartbeat.

“Sweetheart,” he begged, voice hoarse, “stop.”

But you only smiled—flushed, wine-warmed, reckless. “You want me to stop?” you whispered.

“Yes,” he groaned, though it came out strangled, like his body didn’t believe it.

So you tilted your head, lips grazing the corner of his mouth, and whispered the one thing you knew would break him.

“Do you wanna know what I think about,” you murmured, voice like silk, “when I can’t sleep?”

He froze.

“Please, don’t,” he rasped again, but his hands finally left the sheets, fists hovering dangerously close to your waist.

You pressed closer, bikini still damp, leaving another dark patch on his comforter. “I think about you,” you said, the confession tumbling out, drunkenly brave. “About you pinning me down with those big hands. About you fucking me into this mattress until I’m sore. About what you’d sound like—what you’d make me sound like.”

Bucky’s head dropped forward, forehead nearly knocking into yours, his groan low and guttural. His eyes squeezed shut, his jaw clenched tight, but his hips shifted involuntarily beneath you, betraying the way his cock strained against his sweats.

“You don’t mean that,” he growled, desperate. “You’re drunk, you don’t—”

“I mean it,” you cut him off, bold and trembling all at once. “I’ve thought about you for years, Mr. Barnes. What your hand would feel like around my throat. What you’d taste like on my tongue. What you’d look like watching me ride you.”

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, broken. “You’re gonna kill me.” His eyes were blown wide, pupils swallowing blue, jaw clenched like he was in pain. And you—wine-dazed, reckless—you leaned in, lips brushing his, whispering filth he’d never survive.

“I’ve thought about it for so long,” you murmured, trembling but bold. “Being on my knees for you. Looking up at you with my mouth full—imagining how heavy you’d feel on my tongue. How you’d taste—”

“Fuck,” Bucky groaned, raw and guttural, hips jerking beneath you before he could stop himself. His restraint cracked. And then—

“(Y/N)? Where’d you go?” Winnie’s voice drifted up from the backyard, muffled but clear through the open window. Another friend chimed in, laughing, “She went inside for her sweatshirt like twenty minutes ago!”

You froze.

So did he.

The spell shattered, reality crashing back hard.

Bucky dragged in a ragged breath, yanking his hand from your neck like you’d burned him. “Go,” he hissed, voice sharp with panic. “Now. Before I do somethin’ I can’t take back.”

Your stomach twisted. Shame and want tangled into a dizzying knot. You scrambled off the bed, nearly tripping over yourself as you backed toward the door.

At the threshold you hesitated, looking back at him—broad chest rising and falling, sweat dampening his shirt, fists clenched in the sheets where you’d left dark, damp marks from your bikini. His head tipped back against the wall, eyes squeezed shut like he was fighting a war inside himself.

You slipped out into the hall, breathless, your friends’ laughter echoing through the house.

–

Bucky was a ghost all morning. No breakfast chatter, no lingering around the kitchen like usual. Just the sound of his shoes creaking across the floorboards, the door shutting as he disappeared into the garage, or the faint murmur of ESPN from his office.

You noticed. Of course you noticed. He wouldn’t look at you, wouldn’t so much as brush shoulders when you passed. It twisted in your gut, equal parts embarrassment and frustration.

By late afternoon, Winnie and the girls had decided on a last-minute trip to some day party at a bar downtown. They were already half-laughing, half-shrieking as they grabbed their bags and piled out the door.

“You coming?” Winnie asked, sunglasses perched on her head.

You shook your head quickly, feigning disinterest. “Nah, I’m beat. Gonna stay in, maybe nap.” She rolled her eyes but didn’t push, slamming the door behind her. The house fell quiet.

For a while, you sat at the kitchen island, sipping from a glass of water, scrolling aimlessly through your phone. The silence was heavy, but in a way, it gave you room to breathe. Upstairs, Bucky heard the door shut. Then the car peeling away. The laughter fading.

Finally.

Finally, he could stop avoiding his own damn house. He stripped down, tugged on his swim trunks, and headed out to the pool. The water was cool against his overheated skin, the sun dipping lower in the sky. For a few blissful hours, he let himself relax—swimming lazy laps, stretching out sore muscles, dunking his head under until the world muted.

When he finally climbed out, toweling off his hair, he felt lighter. Safer. Everyone was gone. He’d managed to keep his distance, and no one had to know how close he’d come to losing his mind last night.

He padded back into the kitchen, still damp, towel slung over his shoulder—

And stopped dead.

You were there.

Sitting at the island in a tank top and shorts, hair in a messy bun, glass of water in front of you. You glanced up at the sound of the sliding door, and your lips quirked like you’d caught him in something.

“Hey,” you said casually, like nothing had happened.

For a second, all he could do was stare—water dripping down his chest, towel useless in his fist. His heart kicked hard against his ribs, because he’d thought he was safe. He’d thought you were gone.

And now, it was just the two of you.

“Thought you went with the others,” he said finally, voice low, careful.

You shrugged, spinning the glass in your hand. “Didn’t feel like it.”

The air between you thickened, the silence charged. His throat worked as his gaze dragged over you, then away, like looking at you burned.

Get it together, Barnes, he scolded himself. She’s twenty-two. She’s your kid’s best friend. She’s the girl who whispered she wanted you on her knees last night—

“Hungry?” you asked suddenly, cutting through his thoughts. Your smile was small, teasing, but your eyes lingered on the water still dripping from his chest. “I could make something.”

He swallowed hard. “I’m fine.” But his voice was rough, and you both knew damn well he was anything but fine.

You set your glass down on the island a little too hard, nerves buzzing under your skin. He was still standing by the sliding door, towel slung over his shoulder, droplets of water sliding down his chest. You couldn’t look away—and that only made your cheeks hotter.

“Mr. Barnes,” you said quickly, before you lost your nerve. “I… I need to talk to you about last night.”

His shoulders stiffened instantly. He drew in a slow, heavy breath, blue eyes narrowing just slightly as he braced himself. You saw it in the way his jaw flexed, the way his grip tightened on the towel. He was ready to shut you down—You should go. You can’t be here.

But you rushed in, words tumbling over themselves.

“Just lemme say it, okay?” You waved your hands, flustered, tripping over the syllables. “I’m sorry. I—I read it all wrong, and fuck, that was so embarrassing. I was drunk, I didn’t mean—”

“Sweetheart—”

“No, really, I didn’t—”

“Honey—”

You buried your face in your hands, groaning. “Oh my god, I want to crawl into a hole. I didn’t mean it.”

Silence.

When you finally peeked through your fingers, he wasn’t smirking, wasn’t angry. He was watching you with something darker in his eyes, something that made your breath catch.

He stepped closer. Just one heavy step that ate the space between you.

“You didn’t mean it?” he asked, voice low, rough, curling around you like smoke.

You swallowed. “I didn’t—”

His gaze pinned you in place. “You didn’t mean to climb onto my bed in a wet bikini and tell me you wanted to be on your knees for me?”

The words slammed into you, straight from his mouth, your own words, dripping with sin as he repeated them. Your lips parted, air stuttering in your throat.

“Didn’t mean to whisper about wrapping that pretty mouth around me?” He took another step, towel sliding from his shoulder to the floor, forgotten. His voice dropped, gravel scraping low. “Didn’t mean to beg me to pull a couple strings and make you mine?”

Your stomach flipped, heat pooling low, thighs pressing together instinctively.

“Mr. Barnes…” your voice broke on his name, dazed and breathless.

He was right there now, close enough for the water dripping from his hair to dampen your skin, close enough that the counter pressed into your lower back as he boxed you in.

His hand braced on the island beside your hip, fingers flexing like he wanted to touch but was still holding back. His eyes, though? They were already devouring you.

“Tell me you didn’t mean it,” he said quietly, dangerously. “Look me in the eye and say it. And I’ll let you walk out of here.”

The kitchen was quiet except for the hum of the fridge and your ragged breathing. Bucky had you pinned against the island, his damp chest brushing your tank top, water still dripping from his hair.

“Six years,” he drawled, low and amused, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Sweetheart, you gotta tell me all about that.”

You shook your head quickly, face burning. “Mr. Barnes, no—”

“Yes,” he murmured, kissing just beneath your ear, slow and deliberate. “I want to hear every dirty little thought you had about me.” His teeth grazed your skin, nipping lightly. “Bet you were cute as hell, all flushed and shy with that crush.”

Your hands gripped the counter hard, breath hitching as his mouth trailed lower, biting gently at your collarbone, then soothing the sting with his tongue.

“I was a kid,” you mumbled, trying to hide your face. “It was stupid.”

“Didn’t sound stupid last night.” His lips curved against your skin, biting again, harder this time. His voice dropped, rough with hunger. “Tell me.”

Your chest heaved. His hand, warm and broad, was already sliding down your ribs, brushing the curve of your waist, wandering lower until he toyed with the waistband of your sweat shorts.

You whimpered. “Bucky…”

He hummed against your neck, pushing his hand beneath the elastic, fingers teasing the line of your bikini bottoms. “That’s it. Say my name like that again.”

Your head tipped back, exposing more of your throat, your voice cracking as you admitted, “I thought about you every time I was here. Watching you mow the lawn, cook dinner, drive us around. I couldn’t stop staring.”

His teeth sank into the soft spot of your shoulder, making you gasp. His fingers slipped under the thin bikini fabric now, brushing hot and slow over your slick folds.

“Keep talkin’,” he growled against your skin, lips wet at your jaw. “Tell me how bad you wanted me.”

Your knees trembled, his arm holding you up against the counter as your body betrayed you. “I wanted you so bad. Every time you looked at me, every time you laughed, I wanted you. I used to go home and… and—”

“And touch yourself thinkin’ about me?” His fingers finally slid through your wetness, stroking you with lazy, teasing circles.

You gasped, nodding helplessly. “Yes.”

He groaned low against your throat, biting hard at your collarbone as his hand moved deeper into your shorts. You moaned softly, arching into his touch, loving every second of it.

And Bucky—smirking against your skin, kissing and biting your neck while his hand worked lower—was having the time of his life, drawing out every confession and soaking up your flustered little gasps like they were his new favorite drug.

His hand slid lower, under your shorts and beneath your bikini bottoms, rough fingers finding slick heat. You jolted, moaning before you could stop yourself.

He smirked against your collarbone. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. You love it, don’t you?”

Two fingers pressed inside you without warning, filling you deep, stretching you. You cried out into your palm, nails digging into the counter. His thumb rubbed circles over your clit, steady and relentless.

You whimpered, hips rocking helplessly into his hand. “Bucky—”

“Tell me,” he demanded, thrusting his fingers deeper, curling them just right.

“I thought about—” Your voice broke into a whimper. “About sneaking into your room at night… about you pinning me down and taking me—god, Mr. Barnes—”

“That’s it,” he encouraged, biting down on the side of your neck, sucking a dark mark into your skin. “What else, sweetheart?”

“I thought about—” you gasped as his thumb pressed harder against your clit, “—about you bending me over the counter, about how big you’d be, about choking on you—”

“Fuck,” he hissed, his teeth dragging over your jaw, his fingers pumping faster inside you. “Say it again.”

“Choking on you,” you whined, breathless, “with your hand in my hair—watching you lose control—”

“Jesus Christ.” His forehead pressed to yours, eyes blazing, his mouth claiming yours in a bruising kiss. His tongue stole your moans, swallowing them like fuel as his fingers drove you higher.

You were trembling, clutching his shoulders, sweat beading at your temples.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he growled against your skin, thumb circling tighter, faster. “Gonna make you—” The sound of the front door slamming open shattered the air.

“Hellooo? We’re back!” Winnie’s voice rang out, muffled laughter spilling in with her friends’.

You froze. Your whole body jerked against him.

Bucky’s hand was still inside your shorts, his thumb pressed tight to your clit, your entire body trembling on the knife’s edge. His blue eyes snapped to yours—wide, feral, then immediately calculating.

He yanked his hand free, slick fingers glistening in the dim kitchen light. You nearly whimpered at the loss. In one smooth motion, he turned, grabbed the abandoned wine glass from the counter, and raised it casually as the girls’ voices grew closer.

You leaned against the island, still shaking, tugging your shorts back into place, praying your face wasn’t as red as it felt. The sliding door opened and Winnie sauntered in, sunglasses perched on her head. “Oh, hey, Dad. Thought you were out back.”

Bucky took a slow sip of water, smirk tugging at his lips. “Spilled some wine earlier,” he said easily, licking his fingers that were inside of you seconds ago before wiping it on the towel slung over his shoulder. “Was just cleanin’ it up.”

Your stomach flipped, heat flooding your chest.

Winnie wrinkled her nose. “Figures. You’re always nagging me about coasters.” She breezed past, her friends giggling behind her, completely oblivious. You sat frozen on the stool, clutching your glass like it might hide the way your chest still rose and fell too fast. Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

And Bucky—Bucky caught your eye as he set the glass down, tongue darting to swipe the last taste from his thumb.

The rest of the evening passed like it always did: the girls raided the fridge, shrieking with laughter about something from the bar, and you perched at the island with your water glass, nodding along, pretending your thighs weren’t still slick and trembling.

Bucky vanished upstairs after muttering something about “needing a shower.” No one thought twice. But you did.

Bucky lay flat on his back, one arm slung over his forehead, the other thrown across the empty side of the bed. The TV flickered, muted, baseball game long over.

He hadn’t moved in an hour. He shifted, cock stiffening again just at the memory of your voice. She was right there. Panting, dripping, whisperin’ about choking on me like it was a prayer.

His hand clenched the sheet. If Winnie hadn’t walked in, I’d have had her on her back on the island, crying my name with her legs over my shoulders. Jesus.

He groaned into the dark, pressing the heel of his palm against his erection like it might make the ache go away. It didn’t.

He let out a rough laugh, shaking his head. Kid’s probably in her room right now, still flustered. Probably squeezin’ her thighs together, thinkin’ about my fingers. Hell, she’s probably makin’ a mess of herself with her own hand—

Bucky groaned again, rolling onto his side, dragging the pillow over his face. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he muttered, voice muffled. “This is gonna kill me.”

The house was dead quiet, it was probably 2am, only the faint creak of pipes and the hum of the fridge. You padded barefoot into the kitchen, sleep shorts clinging to your damp skin, hair mussed from tossing in bed. You told yourself you just needed water. Just water.

But the second you leaned against the island with your glass, you felt it—the shift in the air.

Footsteps. Heavy. Slow.

And then Bucky was there, filling the doorway, still damp from his late shower, sweatpants slung low. His eyes caught yours in the dim light, dark and hungry, and your stomach dropped.

He smirked faintly, stepping closer. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

You swallowed hard. “Yeah. Just… water.” He came up behind you, body heat at your back, caging you against the island. His mouth brushed your ear, voice rough, broken from restraint.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about this sweet pussy, sweetheart.” Your knees buckled. The glass in your hand nearly slipped. His hand splayed wide over your lower back. His mouth trailed hot down your neck, teeth scraping as he dragged kisses lower, lower, along your spine.

“You ever done this before, baby?” he murmured, lips ghosting your skin. His other hand tugged at your shorts, pulling them slow over your hips. “Any of those college boys drool over you enough to bend you over a kitchen counter?”

You shook your head desperately, but it wasn’t enough. His teeth sank into the curve of your ass cheek, sharp enough to make you yelp, your voice muffled against your arm.

“Answer me,” he growled against your skin.

“N-no!” you gasped, body trembling. “Fuck—no, Mr. Barnes, just you—” Your words broke into a whimper as his tongue followed the bite, soothing the sting. “J-just you, oh my god…”

A low, dangerous groan rumbled from his chest as he shoved your shorts the rest of the way down, leaving them tangled at your knees. He dropped to his own, big hands spreading you open, mouth hot and hungry against the backs of your thighs, then higher.

“Good girl,” he murmured, pressing kisses up your inner thighs until your whole body shook. “Gonna show you what it feels like to get fucked by a real man.”

The first swipe of his tongue had your legs trembling, your nails clawing the countertop to keep from screaming.

You bit down on your wrist, whimpering, fighting to stay quiet. Upstairs, your friends were asleep—Winnie just a few doors down. The thought made your stomach twist, made the slick pooling between your thighs even hotter.

But Bucky only smirked against you, licking deeper, groaning at the taste. “That’s it, sweetheart. Keep those pretty sounds down. Don’t want anyone to know you best friend’s dad’s the one makin’ you cum like this.”

And with his mouth locked on you, teeth and tongue teasing, sucking, biting, you knew there was no way in hell you’d last long.

The cool marble of the island pressed into your stomach, your hands scrambling for purchase on the slick surface. Bucky’s big palms spread you open, his mouth buried between your thighs, tongue working you mercilessly. “fuck—” you whimpered into the crook of your arm, hips rocking helplessly against his face.

“That’s it, baby,” he groaned against your slick heat, tongue sliding deep before flicking your clit again. “Just me. You like that? You like me eatin’ this pretty pussy?”

“Yes,” you gasped, voice high and shaky, muffled by the skin of your forearm. His teeth scraped lightly, making your knees tremble, and then he pulled back just enough to speak, his voice rough and commanding.

“You wanna cum?”

“Yes—god, yes, please—”

He smirked against your skin, fingers digging into your hips. “Then tell me who she belongs to.” Your body clenched around nothing, desperate, right on the edge. The words tumbled out of you in a frantic rush.

“Yours, Mr. Barnes, fuck fuck fuck—my pussy is yours, always been, oh my god—” A low, guttural growl vibrated against you, his tongue plunging back in, sucking, devouring you like he’d been starving for years.

And then—

Creaaaaak.

A floorboard upstairs. A muffled laugh. The shift of footsteps.

You froze. Heart in your throat, blood roaring in your ears.

“Bucky—stop—” you whisper-yelled, panicked, pushing weakly at his head. “They—they’re awake—”

But he only groaned, lips wrapping tighter around your clit, eyes flashing up at you with wicked amusement.

“Mmm,” he hummed against you, voice muffled, “then you should come quick, sweetheart. C’mon. Soak my fuckin’ face before anyone wanders down here.”

Your stomach dropped, panic and want twisting into something unbearable. You gasped, biting your fist, “oh my god—”

His mouth never let up. His tongue circled harder, sucking you mercilessly, his stubble scraping your inner thighs raw while his hands pinned your hips in place.

And all you could do was try to stay quiet, muffling your screams in your arm as the world tilted and your release barreled down on you—right there, bent over your best friend’s dad’s kitchen counter, while her and the other girls stirred upstairs.

You slumped forward against the island, cheek pressed to the cool marble, your whole body trembling as the last waves of your orgasm ebbed through you. Your thighs were shaky, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

Bucky’s big hands smoothed up your sides, gentler now, grounding you. He kissed the back of your shoulder, softer than the bites he’d left all over your skin.

“You okay, sweetheart?” His voice was low, gravelly, almost tender — like he hadn’t just devoured you on the kitchen counter while your best friend slept upstairs.

You managed a shaky nod. “Yeah… yeah, I’m okay.”

He hummed, pressing another kiss just behind your ear. His hand rubbed slow circles over your hip, reassuring, careful. But you could feel it — the thick, hot press of him against your ass through his sweatpants, straining hard.

Your lips parted, a needy sound slipping out before you could swallow it down.

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered under his breath, forehead dropping to your shoulder like he was trying to get a grip. “Sweetheart, don’t make that noise right now. I’m hangin’ on by a thread.”

But the solid weight of him pressed against you, thick and hot, made your stomach flip and your thighs clench all over again. You rocked back against him instinctively, just enough to feel him twitch.

“Goddamn it,” he groaned, hips jerking forward once like he couldn’t help himself. His hand grabbed your waist, steadying you. “You feel that? That’s what you do to me.”

You whimpered, tilting your hips again so you could feel the length of him, thick and solid against your bare ass.

He kissed the side of your neck, teeth catching your skin, and whispered ragged, “You’re gonna kill me. I should stop. I should walk you back upstairs, tuck you in bed like a good man would.”

But his cock pulsed against you, proof that “stop” wasn’t what he wanted at all.

Your voice was a whisper, desperate. “I don’t want you to stop.”

He groaned again, deep and broken, gripping your hips tighter as he pressed himself harder against you.

But he did. God, he should get an award for that. A Nobel Peace Prize.

–

The sun streamed bright through the kitchen windows, cutting across the counter where the girls were perched with their mugs of coffee and cereal bowls. Winnie was still half-asleep, scrolling on her phone, one of the others was loudly recapping something from the night before.

You sat at the island, stirring your spoon through your cereal, your body humming with awareness. The marble under your elbow felt too familiar. Too incriminating. You couldn’t stop glancing at it, couldn’t stop hearing the echo of Bucky’s voice in your head from a few hours ago.

Soak my fuckin’ face.

Your thighs pressed together under the counter. You prayed no one noticed the flush still on your cheeks. The sound of heavy footsteps made your stomach drop.

And then he walked in.

Bucky looked maddeningly casual — gray t-shirt, sweatpants, damp hair combed back like he’d just come from the shower. He gave a low grunt of greeting, moving toward the coffeemaker.

You froze.

He didn’t look at you. Not once. His focus stayed on the machine, the sugar, the spoon clinking against the mug. But the way his jaw flexed, the way his shoulders squared—he was aware of you. Hyper-aware.

And when he finally turned to lean against the counter, sipping his coffee, his eyes flicked to yours for half a second. Just a flicker. Quick, sharp, enough to make your pulse trip.

“Morning,” Winnie yawned, not even glancing up.

“Morning,” Bucky echoed, his voice rough, casual. But then, softer, just for you: “You sleep alright, sweetheart?”

He was too casual. Too slick and unbothered for a man who ate you from the back like you were his last meal on death row. Too chill for a man that gave you a trillion new wet dreams to think about with his every move.

–

The house was quiet. Too quiet. Winnie had gone off with her friends again, and you’d convinced yourself you were truly alone.

So you swam. Lap after lap, letting the cool water soothe the restless heat simmering under your skin since the night in the kitchen. By the time you climbed out, hair dripping down your back, you felt lighter, steadier.

But the steadiness didn’t last.

The shower was hot and quick, steam fogging the bathroom mirror as you scrubbed away chlorine and sweat. You wrapped yourself in a towel, tucking the edge tight against your chest, bare feet padding softly across the upstairs hall.

And then you saw it.

His door. Slightly open.

You slowed, pulse hitching. He wasn’t home, you told yourself. He’d said something about errands, maybe the gym. The house was silent. His car wasn’t outside.

Curiosity tugged harder than reason. Before you could stop yourself, you pushed the door open with your fingertips and slipped inside.

His room smelled like him. Soap, cedar, and something darker, heavier, that was just Bucky.

Your eyes drifted to the closet. The door was half-open, a line of shirts and jackets hanging neat inside. Drawn like a magnet, you stepped in, the carpet soft under your bare feet.

You pressed your face to the sleeve of a gray t-shirt, inhaling deep. It smelled like laundry soap and him — comforting and dizzying all at once. You closed your eyes, whispering to yourself, God, what is wrong with me?

“You tell me, sweetheart.”

Your eyes flew open.

Bucky was standing in the doorway of the closet, arms crossed over his broad chest, damp hair curling at the edges like he’d just showered, too. His eyes were darker than you’d ever seen, burning as they raked over you — the towel, the bare legs, the guilty look on your face.

“Mr. Barnes—” you stammered, clutching the towel tighter around you.

He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, crowding the small space until your back hit the wall of hanging shirts. His scent surrounded you, stronger now, making your knees weak.

“You in my closet?” he asked softly, voice rough. Your lips parted, but no sound came.

He smirked faintly, leaning down until his mouth brushed your ear. “Didn’t get enough the other night, huh? Had to come in here and breathe me in?”

Your breath shuddered. “I… I thought you weren’t home.”

His chuckle was low, dangerous, vibrating against your skin. “Clearly.” His hand came up, tugging the towel just slightly at your chest, enough to make your pulse jump. “Now the question is… what am I gonna do with you, sweetheart?”

You pressed back against the closet wall, clutching the towel tight against your chest. Bucky was right there in front of you, close enough that you could see smell the cologne still fresh on his skin.

“Didn’t think I’d catch you, huh?” he murmured, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “Sneakin’ into my room. Wrappin’ yourself in a towel and smellin’ my shirts like you’re hungry for me.”

Slow, deliberate, his mouth pressed to yours — not frantic this time, not messy like the kitchen. This was controlled, deep, a claiming. His tongue slid against yours, tasting, teasing, while one big hand cupped your jaw, holding you in place.

You melted instantly, knees weak, your fingers gripping his shoulders through the thin fabric of his t-shirt.

“Mm,” he hummed against your lips, pulling back just enough to murmur. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? A kiss from your best friend’s dad? Been dreamin’ about this since you were a teenager, huh?”

You whimpered, the sound swallowed as he kissed you again, slow and filthy.

His other hand tugged at the edge of your towel, loosening it just slightly, enough to make the top slip lower across your chest. He smirked against your mouth, teeth catching your lower lip.

“You walked right into my room beggin’ for trouble,” he whispered. “Guess I’ll give it to you.”

With gentle but relentless pressure, he started walking you backward, his mouth never leaving yours. His hand cupped the back of your neck, guiding you, teasing you with little nips and filthy murmurs between kisses.

“Bet you thought about this in your little dorm room, didn’t you? Touchin’ yourself with your hand down your panties, thinkin’ about me layin’ you out right here.”

Your back bumped the dresser, then the wall, until finally the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed.

Bucky smiled into the kiss, pulling back just enough to look at you — your flushed cheeks, dazed eyes, the towel slipping lower, one strap of fabric all that kept it from falling completely.

He brushed his thumb over your lip, voice low and wicked. “Gonna let me take this towel off, sweetheart? Or you wanna keep pretendin’ you weren’t in here snoopin’ for me?”

The towel slipped loose the second his hands tugged it away, dropping soundlessly to the floor. You gasped, arms instinctively twitching to cover yourself, but Bucky caught your wrists gently and pinned them to your sides.

“Uh-uh,” he murmured, kissing you slow, deep, swallowing your panic. “Don’t hide from me. You’re beautiful. Mine.”

Your head spun, your body buzzing as he guided you back onto the mattress. The sheets smelled like him — soap, cedar, something darker — and it made you dizzy as he pressed you down, following you onto the bed.

He slotted his body over yours, his broad chest brushing your bare skin, and lowered his hips until the thick, hard line of him ground against your core. Even through his sweats, you could feel it — heavy, solid, relentless.

You moaned, arching into him, your legs parting instinctively to make room. “There she is,” he cooed, lips brushing your jaw as he rocked against you again. “So whiny already. So fuckin’ responsive to me.”

Your back arched, your nails biting into his shoulders, you panted, overwhelmed by the steady drag of his cock against your slick heat.

He nipped at your neck, grinding harder, slower, making you feel every inch of him. “Don’t worry, baby,” he whispered, his voice rough, filthy and tender all at once. “Gonna teach you how to take everything I give you.”

Your breath came in ragged little gasps, hips twitching helplessly beneath him. You were soaking through his sweats already, the friction almost too much and not nearly enough.

“Fuck, listen to you,” he groaned, rutting against you harder, his mouth brushing your ear. “Pantin’ like a good little thing, just from me grindin’ on you. Haven’t even given you my cock yet.”

You whimpered, legs tightening around his waist, pulling him closer, desperate for more.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he growled, kissing down your throat, biting your collarbone before soothing it with his tongue. “Cling to me. Show me how bad you need it.”

Every slow drag of his hips against yours had you keening, your body betraying you with how quickly you tipped into frenzy under his weight, his words, his heat.

And Bucky — smirking against your skin, cooing low, whispering filth in your ear — was in no rush, savoring every whiny, needy sound you made as he ground you into the mattress like you already belonged to him.

Bucky kissed you until you were dizzy, slow and deep, even as his hips ground harder against you. You could feel how hard he was, thick and straining through the fabric, every drag against your swollen clit making your whole body twitch.

Then, with a low groan, he sat back just enough to shove his sweats down, baring himself. Your eyes went wide when he pressed back against you, cock heavy, thick and hot as it slid against your bare, soaked folds.

The first grind of him naked against you made you choke on a gasp, your back arching, slick already coating the length of him.

“Fuck,” he hissed, dragging himself along your pussy again, slow and deliberate, until the head caught on your clit. “You feel that, baby? That’s what’s about to fill you up.”

Your legs trembled around his waist, pulling him closer. “Bucky—please.”

He braced one hand beside your head, the other guiding himself down to your entrance. The blunt head of his cock pressed against your soaked hole, and you whined, hips jerking up, desperate.

He bent over you, kissing your temple, your cheek, your lips, whispering, “I know it’s big, sweetheart. But you’re doin’ so good—fuck—”

He pushed forward, slow but steady, sinking into you inch by thick inch. Your walls clamped down, stretching around him, the burn delicious and overwhelming.

“So tight,” he groaned, forehead pressing to yours as he forced himself deeper. “Goddamn, you’re squeezin’ me like a vice—there it is…”

A broken cry left your throat, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Feel s’full, Bucky.”

His cock twitched inside you, the sound of his name on your lips almost undoing him right there.

“Mmmm,” he groaned low, biting at your jaw, “I know, baby. You’re suckin’ me in like you never wanna let me leave.”

Your thighs locked around him, trembling, body clinging to him as he bottomed out, filling you completely. He held still for a moment, chest heaving, letting you adjust, kissing your mouth soft and slow even while his cock throbbed inside you.

“That’s it,” he whispered against your lips, voice rough and reverent. “Takin’ me so well. My perfect girl. My sweet little pussy, made just for me.”

You whimpered into the kiss, dazed, overwhelmed, needy. And Bucky—cooing, praising, grinding just slightly to feel the way you squeezed him—looked like a man who never planned on letting you go.

He rocked forward another inch, your body stretching to fit him, and a ragged groan tore from his chest. His forehead pressed to yours, breath hot and uneven, but his eyes stayed locked on the way your lips parted, the way your nails bit into his skin.

“Jesus Christ,” he panted, jaw clenching as his hips pressed flush to yours. “Can’t believe you’re givin’ me this—fuck—this tight little thing all to myself.”

You whimpered, your legs wrapping around his waist like your body was answering for you. “Bucky…”

That broke him.

His hips pulled back just slightly before thrusting forward again, the thick drag of him making your eyes roll back into your skull. The noise that left your throat was half-whine, half-moan, and it went straight to his cock.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he growled, watching your face twist up, lips trembling, eyes fluttering shut. He smirked, feral and satisfied, and gave another sharp thrust, dragging a cry out of you.

“Yeah?” His voice was low and wicked, his smirk deepening as he looked down at you like he owned you. “You like my cock in you, sweetheart?”

You nodded desperately, words tangled in your throat, your hands scrabbling at his back for purchase. “Uh-uh.” His hand caught your chin, tilting your face up until your dazed eyes met his. “Say it.”

“I—” your voice broke as he rolled his hips deeper, hitting that spot that made your toes curl. “I like it, Bucky—fuck—I love it.”

His smirk curved sharp, his thumb brushing your lip while his hips started to move with a rhythm now, each thrust pushing a helpless whimper out of you.

“Good girl,” he rasped, kissing you hard, sloppy, his tongue swallowing your cries as his pace built. “Knew you would. This pretty little pussy was made for me.”

And the way your eyes rolled back, body trembling under his weight, only made him want to drive you further, drag every filthy sound out of you until you couldn’t say anything but his name.

Bucky’s thrusts started to find a rhythm, slow but deep, his cock dragging through you so thick and heavy it made your toes curl. He watched every twitch of your face, the way your eyes rolled back, the way your mouth fell open like you were already undone.

“Clutchin’ me so tight I can barely move. Anyone ever made you feel this good, baby?”

You gasped, head tipping back against the pillows, nails clawing at his shoulders. “N-no,” you panted, voice high and shaky. “No one ever even came close—”

His hips stuttered at that, his smirk flashing as he growled low in your ear, “Yeah? That right?”

Your legs locked tighter around his waist, dragging him deeper, your voice breaking as the words tumbled out: “Only ever wanted you—nghhh—always you, Bucky—”

He let out a guttural moan, his forehead dropping to yours, eyes wild as he looked down at you. His thrusts grew rougher, needier, like your confession flipped a switch he’d been holding back.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, his mouth claiming yours in a bruising kiss. “Sweetheart, you don’t know what that does to me. Say it again.”

“Only you,” you whimpered into his mouth, eyes squeezed shut as your body shook with every sharp thrust. “Only ever wanted you.”

His cock twitched inside you, the sound of it almost unraveling him right there. He bit down gently on your bottom lip, groaning, “Fuck, that’s it. My girl. My perfect girl.”

And with every desperate, whiny cry that left your lips, Bucky drove into you harder, determined to show you exactly what it meant to be his.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he murmured, nipping at your swollen lip before kissing it again. “You got me. Got me forever—fuck.”

He groaned deep in his chest as your walls fluttered around him, hugging him so tight he had to grit his teeth to keep control.

“Yeah,” he rasped, hips rolling deep, hitting that spot that made your back arch off the mattress. “Like that. Oh, fuck, like that.”

Then he slowed suddenly, dragging all the way out until only the thick head of him stretched your entrance, before pushing back in painfully slow.

The wet, obscene squelch echoed through the room, filling the silence between your gasps.

Bucky’s eyes flicked down, smirk curling his lips. “Hear that?” he growled, thrusting slow again, deliberate, making the slick sound ring out louder. “So fuckin’ wet for me.”

Your hands scrambled against his back, nails digging into muscle, your head tossing side to side. “Bucky, oh my god—”

“Mhm,” he cooed, kissing along your jaw, your cheek, before catching your mouth in another bruising kiss. “That’s all me, baby. Nothin’ but me makin’ this pussy sing.”

Another slow thrust, another filthy sound — so wet, so loud, you buried your face in his shoulder with a whimper.

But he wasn’t about to let you hide. His hand caught your jaw again, forcing your dazed eyes back to his, his smirk wicked.

“Don’t look away, sweetheart,” he muttered, hips snapping forward hard enough to make your breath catch. “Wanna see your face while I ruin you. Wanna hear every dirty sound your body makes for me.”

And then he drove into you again, this time harder, the noise louder, lewder, making your eyes roll back as you clung to him like he was the only thing tethering you to the earth.

You were unraveling, every thrust of him dragging ragged whimpers out of your throat, louder and louder as his cock split you open over and over again.

“Bucky—fuck—” you cried, clutching at his shoulders.

“Shhh,” he hissed, eyes flashing down at you, but his hips only slammed harder into yours. “You gotta be quiet, sweetheart—”

Your moans pitched higher anyway, desperate and broken.

With a growl, his hand clamped over your mouth, palm covering your cries as his thrusts rocked the bed beneath you. His forehead pressed to yours, voice low, ragged, urgent.

“We can’t let them know, okay?” he whispered against your lips, breath hot and filthy. “Not right now. Pussy feels too good, baby—fuck—too good.”

Your muffled whines vibrated against his palm, your eyes wide, wet, rolling back as he buried himself to the hilt again and again.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he groaned, smirking down at you even as sweat beaded at his temples. “Gotta keep it down, honey. If they come home and hear you screamin’ on my cock, I’ll never hear the fuckin’ end of it.”

His pace picked up, sharper, harder, the obscene wet slap of skin on skin filling the room where your voice couldn’t.

“Winnie would be so pissed at me,” he taunted, eyes blazing into yours, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth while his hand muffled your cries. “Her best friend spread out under me, takin’ me so fuckin’ well. But you don’t care, do you? You just want it.”

Your body convulsed around him, tears prickling the corners of your eyes, muffled pleas swallowed by his hand. His hand pressed firmer over your mouth, his thrusts rough and frantic now, every word a ragged growl against your ear.

And the wet, obscene sounds of him pounding into you made it impossible to hold back, your body already spiraling into release under his weight, his hand, his words.

Your whole body was shaking, every thrust driving you higher, wetter, tighter around him. His palm stayed firm over your mouth, muffling the desperate whimpers spilling out of you.

Your eyes squeezed shut, tears brimming, your cheeks burning hot. What the fuck is this? Why is this so fucking hot?

Bucky groaned low in your ear, rutting deep, his cock dragging against that spot that made your toes curl. “Look at you,” he rasped, watching your flushed face twist up, your muffled cries spilling against his hand. “You love this. Can’t stop whining, can you?”

You nodded frantically, moaning into his palm. Your hips jerked up, chasing every thrust, your body clinging to him like it didn’t care who heard, didn’t care who found out.

“Fuck,” he growled, eyes burning as he fucked into you harder. “You’re blushin’—you know how dirty this is, don’t you? Best friend’s dad, hand over your mouth so no one hears me poundin’ this sweet little pussy.”

Your muffled moan cracked into a sob. You nodded again, eyes wide, pleading.

“What’s that, baby?” he taunted, pressing tighter over your lips. “You beggin’ me through my hand? You that desperate?”

You hummed frantically, arching into him, your nails clawing at his shoulders.

His smirk curved sharp, dark, satisfied. “Goddamn. That’s cute, sweetheart. You’re so needy you’ll beg for me with your mouth covered.”

He thrust deeper, slower, grinding into you until your eyes rolled back. His forehead pressed to yours, his voice a rough whisper.

“Say it with your body, baby. Beg me to finish inside you. Beg me to make this pussy mine forever.”

You whined, shaking, nodding so hard tears slipped down your temples. You pushed your hips up against him, desperate, frantic, every muffled cry spilling into his hand like please, please, please.

“Fuck—” his voice broke, his hips faltering, cock twitching deep inside you. “That’s it, honey. Beg for it.”

You were spiraling, overwhelmed by the filth of it — Bucky noticed immediately.

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear, his voice a gravelly whisper. “What’s that, sweetheart? Too much? Too dirty? Embarrassed?”

You whimpered under his palm, face hot with shame and need.

He chuckled low, thrusting slow and deep until your body clenched hard around him. “No words, huh? ’s okay, baby.” His hand slid from your mouth to cradle your jaw, tilting your flushed face back up toward his. “Just keep your eyes on me. Wanna see your pretty face when you come.”

Your lids fluttered, trying to shut again, but his thumb brushed your cheek, coaxing you open. His hips snapped forward, burying himself deep, and your eyes flew wide with a muffled cry.

“Yeahhh,” he rasped, smirking down at you, sweat dripping from his temple. “That’s it. Let me see how good I make you feel.”

Your lips trembled, chest heaving, but you couldn’t look away. Not with his gaze burning into yours, not with his cock stretching you open so deep it felt like you’d never be the same.

He groaned, fucking into you harder, faster, his praise spilling ragged and filthy.

“Good girl,” he panted, his voice breaking as your walls fluttered around him. “Just like that. Eyes on me while I fuck you. Fu-uck—”

Your moans pitched higher, body twisting under his weight, embarrassment drowned by the way his words made your clit throb. Every praise was gasoline, every thrust pushing you closer to the edge.

And he didn’t stop, didn’t let you hide, just kept coaxing you, kissing the corner of your mouth between grunts.

“Pretty thing. My girl. Gonna cum for me, huh? Yeah, you are. Keep lookin’ at me, baby. Wanna watch you fall apart.”

Your eyes rolled, lips trembling, but his hand tightened on your jaw, forcing your gaze to stay on him as you shattered.

“Fuck—fuck, that’s it, baby,” he panted, voice guttural. His thrusts grew rough, erratic, his cock twitching deep inside you. “I’m gonna cum—gonna cum inside this tight little pussy—”

Your walls spasmed around him, milking him, and the sight of your face falling apart under him ripped the last shred of control away.

“Fuck!” His groan was raw, breaking into a growl as he buried himself to the hilt. “Gonna cream all over you—oh, goddamn—”

His eyes never left yours as he spilled inside you, cock pulsing, hot ropes filling you deep. He gritted his teeth, forehead pressed to yours, every muscle in his body taut as he pumped every last drop into your still-clenching pussy.

When it was over, he stayed buried, panting against your lips, thumb stroking your cheek like he couldn’t stop touching you.

And you didn’t look away once.

Bucky was still buried inside you, chest pressed to yours, both of you gasping for air. His thumb stroked lazily over your cheek, his mouth brushing soft kisses along your temple, your jaw, the corner of your lips.

“Good girl,” he whispered, his voice low and wrecked. “Took me so good, sweetheart. You’re perfect. My perfect girl.”

You shivered, your legs still locked around his waist, every nerve buzzing. His praises made you melt, made your body flutter weakly around him even though you were already stuffed full of his cum.

“Sweetest thing I’ve ever had,” he murmured against your skin, kissing your flushed cheek. “So proud of you, baby. Gave me everything.”

You sighed, dazed and blissed out, your hands still fisted in his shirt. He pressed one last kiss to your forehead, whispering, “Mine. Always mine.” He looked down at where you were joined, taking in the sight of the ring of cum around the base of his cock, faint arrest of red there.

“Wait, were you-“

And then—

“Y/N!!!” Winnie’s voice screeched from downstairs, too loud, too close. “I’M HOMEEEEEE!”

Your entire body went rigid.

It had been weeks—no, months—ever since they’d met. If Bucky was honest with himself, the change had started the very first day.

It hadn’t been some big, thunderclap revelation, more like having the ground gently but irrevocably shift beneath his feet. She’d slipped into his life so easily that he hadn’t realized what was happening until he was already in too deep.

She was just… easy.

Easy to talk to.

Easy to laugh with.

Easy to breathe next to.

She never prodded too far into the places he didn’t want to go, but somehow still managed to pull him out of himself. She remembered the smallest things—how he took his coffee, that he hated working with sticky trigger mechanisms, that he read the same dog-eared paperback before missions. On the field, she was always where he needed her before he even asked—most often a ghost on a rooftop, breath steady through her scope, covering him like her own life depended on it.

Which was exactly why he’d done nothing about the way he felt.

He was too damaged, too weathered, too damn old, too… him.

And she was—

Everything.

So when she handed him the strip of black cloth with that infuriating little smirk, he had to hide the warmth curling in his chest with a different kind of expression.

“You can try all your tricks, I’m too good to miss, sweetheart,” he said, letting his voice take on that low, smug drawl.

“Good,” she countered, eyes glinting, “then it shouldn’t be an issue to spar blindfolded.”

He gave her a look, but tied the cloth around his head without another word. Darkness swept over him.

The thing was—he didn’t need his eyes. He could feel her in the air between them, the slight shift in her stance when she moved, the rhythm of her breathing. He knew what she’d try before she tried it. Every step, every strike, every sweep of her leg—blocked. Effortlessly.

He could feel her. The way she shifted her weight barefoot on the mat. The rustle of her tank top. The subtle shift of air pressure as she circled. Her heartbeat—a steady flutter like wings in his ear.

She moved.

So did he.

Block. Twist. Counter.

Again.

Again.

He anticipated everything. She was fluid, quick, precise—but he was older, stronger, and maybe most dangerous of all… he knew her. He knew how she moved. He had spent so long memorizing her rhythms, he could practically see her with his eyes closed.

Every strike met his forearm. Every sweep was dodged. Every jab parried. Until—

Her frustration started to show in the subtle sharpness of her movements, in the light scoff she let slip when he caught her wrist again.

“S’this all you hoped it would be?” he murmured, lips curving as he turned his head toward where she was circling. “Gotta say, I’m getting a little bored here.”

“Oh, I haven’t really been trying,” she said, voice light, teasing. Then, lower, with a heat that cut straight through him:

“Too distracted by how pretty you look blindfolded, Buck.”

And just like that—she had him.

The tiniest hitch in his breath, the faint tilt of his shoulders—enough. Her leg hooked behind his, the momentum sweeping him down hard enough that the mat thudded under his back.

She was on him in an instant, straddling his hips, hands braced on either side of his chest. His pulse was thundering against his ribs, his world narrowing to the heat of her body over his. He tugged the blindfold down, letting it rest around his neck.

Those blue eyes met hers—startled, darkened with something he couldn’t quite keep out of his expression.

Her smirk deepened.

“What?” she asked, head tilting, eyes shamelessly drinking him in.

“Cat got your tongue?”

Bucky was stunned, for the first time in a while words couldn’t come out of his mouth. None that were appropriate anyway.

Bucky didn’t linger after training.

He grabbed his towel, muttered a quick goodbye to the others, and left before anyone could see the state he was in. His chest was tight, his skin hot like it had been scorched from the inside out, every nerve still wired from having her straddling him. From that smirk. From those damn words.

By the time he stepped into his quarters, he was already stripping out of his shirt, jaw tense. He headed straight for the shower, twisting the handle all the way to cold.

It didn’t help.

The water hammered down his back, icy enough to sting, but his skin still felt fever-hot. He braced one hand against the tile, head bowed, breath coming unevenly as if he’d just finished a sprint. She was everywhere—in the echoes of her laugh, in the feel of her thighs bracketing his hips, in the heat of her leaning over him, smug and merciless.

He could still hear her voice, low and teasing, looping in his head until it burned:

Too distracted by how pretty you look blindfolded, Buck.

His hand slid down over his stomach before he could stop himself, wrapping tight around himself with a hiss through his teeth. His other arm flexed where it held him up, the vein standing out under the spray.

He worked himself slow at first, trying to take the edge off, but it wasn’t enough. His hips jerked into his palm, a strangled sound catching in his throat. The cold water did nothing to put out the fire—if anything, the contrast made every touch sharper.

Her face wouldn’t leave him. The press of her body over his. The cocky tilt of her head. The way she’d looked at him like she knew exactly what she was doing to him.

“Fuck…” The word slipped out on a shaky exhale, followed by another, quieter. “Shit.”

The rhythm quickened, the tension coiling so tight in his gut it almost hurt. He bit down on a groan, trying to keep quiet—like even here, alone, it would be dangerous for anyone to hear.

The moment hit fast and hard, the pressure snapping as his release spilled hot against the tile. He gritted his teeth, eyes squeezing shut, her name trapped behind them, never spoken aloud but vibrating through his chest with the force of it.

Bucky stayed there a moment longer, forehead resting against the cool wall, water pounding over him while his pulse gradually slowed.

The next morning, Bucky was at the gym before sunrise.

He didn’t sleep—how could he? Not when every time he closed his eyes he saw her above him, smirking like she owned him, thighs around his hips and voice in his ear like honey wrapped in every dirty thought he ever had.

So he did what he always did when things got under his skin.

He trained.

Now he stood under the harsh fluorescents, shirtless, sweat glistening on his chest as he loaded yet another set of plates onto the barbell. The amount of weight was borderline reckless—ungodly, even for a super soldier—but he didn’t care. Every curl of muscle, every tremble in his arms, every clang of metal was penance.

He dropped into a set of deadlifts with brutal focus. Over and over. Veins in his arms bulging, jaw locked, eyes narrowed. The gym shook with the sound of iron hitting the mat, and he didn’t even flinch.

Across the room, she paused mid-sip of her water bottle, eyes narrowing.

“Okay, what the hell is his problem?” Yelena muttered under her breath, watching Bucky like he might rip the barbell in half.

Nat smirked without looking up from her towel. “Probably a certain someone swept his legs and sat on his lap yesterday.”

Y/N’s eyes went wide. “I did not sit on his lap—”

Yelena cut in, grinning. “Sure, sure. You just… accidentally straddled him in the middle of a sparring session and stayed there for ten seconds too long while he looked like he forgot how to breathe.”

Nat arched a brow, her voice syrupy with mischief. “He’s lifting like he’s got something to prove. Or like he’s trying very hard not to think about something. Or someone.”

Y/N scoffed and turned away too quickly. “You guys are insane.”

“Mmm,” Yelena hummed. “Right. So it’s just a coincidence he nearly snapped the bar in half the second you walked in?”

She looked back.

And sure enough—Bucky’s eyes had flicked up the moment she entered. Just for a second. Barely more than a glance. But it was enough to see the way his jaw tightened. The way his next lift came harder, rougher, like he was punishing the ground for daring to hold him up.

“You should put him out of his misery,” Nat said smoothly, wiping her neck with her towel.

“I am not doing this with you two,” Y/N muttered, cheeks warming as she turned back to her warm-up stretch.

Across the gym, Bucky dropped the barbell with a growl and ran a hand through his hair, sweat dripping down his temples. He didn’t know what was worse—the ache in his arms or the one in his chest.

Either way, it had a name.

And she was standing twenty feet away, laughing at something Yelena said, like she didn’t even know she was driving him crazy.

Late afternoon light bled through the high windows, warm and golden across the mats as Bucky circled her with practiced ease, breathing steady, movements fluid and contained.

Y/N, on the other hand, was breathing hard—sweat beading on her collarbone, hair up in a Dutch braid but still messy, her stance shifting as she tried to anticipate his next move.

She was good. Really good. But he was still winning. Always winning.

He landed a soft jab against her ribs and she twisted out of range with a huff, eyes sharp, footwork precise. But not precise enough. He caught her wrist in the next pass and flipped her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing. She landed on her back with a soft thud, groaning.

“Again,” she muttered, already sitting up.

“You sure?” he asked, brows raised.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not that fragile, Buck.”

He offered a hand, but she waved it off and stood on her own.

This had been going on for an hour.

“Why the sudden obsession with hand-to-hand?” he asked, arms folded as she reset her stance.

Her answer was immediate. Honest. “Because if I ever end up facing someone like you—someone enhanced and actually trying to kill me—I need to last long enough to call for backup.” She shrugged. “I know I won’t win. But I don’t want to die in the first thirty seconds.”

Bucky blinked. Something about the way she said it hit him harder than it should’ve. Because it was practical. Tactical. Smart. And terrifying.

She was preparing to fight someone like him. Like what he used to be.

He swallowed. “Alright.”

“What?”

“You want to see what it’s like when someone’s trying to end you?” His voice dropped, low and careful. “You sure?”

She met his eyes and nodded. No flinch. No fear. Just steel in her spine. “Do it.”

He didn’t like it.

But he did it.

The next pass was faster. Harder. He moved like a threat instead of a partner—shoulders hunched forward, fists tighter, footfalls quieter. His strikes came faster, feints sharper. She was quick, ducking, weaving, barely keeping up. But she was keeping up.

Until she wasn’t.

One misstep—one pivot that was a second too late—and he caught her full-force with a sweep and a shoulder slam that sent her sprawling onto the mat with a crack of impact that echoed through the gym.

“Shit—“

He was kneeling by her in an instant, hand hovering just shy of her waist, guilt already curling in his gut. “You okay? I didn’t mean—”

She blinked up at him.

And smiled.

Not a grimace. Not a wince. A slow, delighted, smug little smile that made his stomach flip.

“Again,” she said, voice low and almost breathless. “Do it again.”

Bucky stared at her.

She looked like the damn cat that got the cream, like getting thrown down by him had just made her week. Her eyes were dark, cheeks flushed, lips parted just enough to be a problem.

“…You’re insane,” he said softly, chest still rising and falling with adrenaline.

“Maybe,” she murmured. “But I’m not dead yet.”

And God help him—he wanted to pin her there and kiss her stupid. But instead he stood, offered her a hand, and pulled her up like she didn’t already own him.

“Again,” she said, already circling.

And this time, he didn’t hold back.

He should’ve stopped.

Should’ve pulled back, told her no, reminded her she wasn’t enhanced and this wasn’t smart, wasn’t safe. But she kept coming. Kept resetting. Kept circling him with that glint in her eye—like she wanted to get thrown around.

So Bucky gave her what she asked for.

Again. And again. And again. And an extra time after that.

She lunged again—fast, sharp, trying to sweep his leg, but he was quicker. He caught her mid-motion and used her momentum against her, spinning her in the air before slamming her flat on her back again, chest-first to the mat with a grunt.

She lay there for a second, breath knocked out of her.

And then she giggled.

He blinked. “Y/N.”

“I’m fine,” she said, voice muffled into the mat.

He hauled her up by the waist before she could protest, hands firm but gentle. She was flushed, sweaty, and grinning like she just won the lottery.

“You’re enjoying this,” he said, half-accusation, half-bewildered.

“Maybe a little.” She was already settling back into position, braid messy, sports bra sticking to her skin, wild energy radiating off her in waves. “Don’t stop. Again.”

He exhaled through his nose, hard. She was out of her mind. But also?

He was kind of losing his mind, too.

Because the way she moved—determined, stubborn, fearless—lit something inside him that hadn’t sparked in years. And the way she looked up at him every time he slammed her to the mat? Like she liked it? Like she trusted him completely, even when he was manhandling her like a weapon?

It undid him.

Next round, she tried to catch him with a low kick—he dodged, hooked an arm around her waist, lifted her clean off the floor like she weighed nothing, and threw her down on her back with enough force to bounce.

She groaned, breathless.

But she didn’t stay down.

“Oh my god,” she panted, laughing now. “Bucky, that one rattled my teeth.”

Bucky froze mid-step, muscles tense, sweat sliding down his temple. “You’re not supposed to like getting rag dolled.”

She rolled onto her side, propping herself up on an elbow, gaze flicking shamelessly down his chest. “You’re doing a great job. A+ brute force.”

He dragged a hand down his face, exasperated. “You’re gonna be sore for a week.”

“Do you promise?” she muttered, still smirking, and then—God help him—bit her bottom lip as she looked him over like he was the dessert.

“You’re a menace,” he muttered, walking past her.

She grabbed his ankle.

“You throwing in the towel, sergeant?”

Bucky turned back, looming over her, and let out a dry, breathless laugh as he crouched beside her. “Oh, sweetheart. You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

And from the way her eyes darkened, breath hitching just slightly?

Yeah.

She absolutely did.

The gym had quieted, the sun dipping lower in the windows, painting the walls in soft amber as the dust settled—literally and figuratively.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the mat, drenched in sweat and radiating satisfaction. Her sports bra was damp and clinging to her, her knee was starting to throb in that familiar post-adrenaline way, and her abs felt like they’d been personally insulted by a truck.

She tilted her head back, eyes closed, trying to cool down, when a cold thud landed beside her.

Ice pack.

She opened one eye. Bucky stood in front of her, towering and shirtless, holding out a water bottle with his usual gruff scowl.

“For the knee,” he muttered. “And drink. You’re already dehydrated.”

She raised a brow but took both.

“You always this bossy after manhandling someone for an hour?”

His mouth twitched.

“You always this bratty after getting your ass handed to you?”

She smirked. “You wish you were handing my ass anything.”

Bucky’s nostrils flared. He looked away sharply—too sharply—and crossed his arms over his chest. The metal one caught the low light, gleaming across his shoulder.

She uncapped the bottle and drank slowly, knowing full well he was still watching her from the corner of his eye. The ice pack rested on her knee, making her hiss as the cold bit into the fresh bruise.

“You’re gonna feel that tomorrow,” he said, voice low, distracted.

“I feel it now,” she replied, rolling her neck. “But don’t act like you didn’t enjoy throwing me around.”

He crouched in front of her, pressing the ice pack onto her knee a little harder, eyes locking onto hers. “You liked being thrown around.”

Her lips curled. “Maybe. Depends who’s doing it.”

There it was.

That little shift in the air. That thing between them that always hovered in the space just shy of spoken. Heavy. Charged.

He looked at her like he was weighing every consequence, every inch between them, every pulse of heat still radiating off her skin. His voice dropped.

“Lucky for you,” he murmured, “you’ve got a sparring partner who knows exactly what you can handle.”

She licked her lips, slow. Intentional.

“And what if I can handle more than you think?”

Silence.

Tension coiled thick between them. Her knee ached, her knuckles throbbed, and her chest was tight for a whole different reason now. Bucky didn’t move. Just stared at her like she was a problem he both wanted and couldn’t solve.

Eventually, he reached out and nudged the ice pack higher on her knee, his fingers brushing warm against her skin.

“You’re insane,” he muttered.

“And you’re still here,” she whispered.

He didn’t argue.

Didn’t say a word.

Just stood again, grabbing his towel, and paused at the edge of the mat.

“I’ll be down the hall if you need me,” he said, voice unreadable.

She smirked to herself as he walked away.

Oh, she needed something alright.

She just wasn’t sure how much longer they were both going to pretend it wasn’t the same thing.

The next morning, Y/N hobbled into the compound kitchen like she’d been hit by a truck.

A Bucky-shaped truck.

Her tank top was loose, hair scraped into a bun with strands falling out in all directions, and she had an ice pack rubber-banded to one knee. She moved like someone who had done about 300 squats followed by getting tossed across a mat for an hour—and enjoyed it.

She didn’t even make it to the coffee machine before Nat, Yelena, and Joaquin pounced.

They were seated at the kitchen island like a well-rested, overly-interested jury.

Joaquin smirked first. “Good morning, sunshine. You look like you got dragged behind a jet.”

“I feel great, thanks,” She muttered, heading for the coffee. “Perfectly fine. Muscles intact. Core function… mostly restored.”

Yelena popped a grape into her mouth. “Mm. So that explains why Barnes was wandering around last night looking like he had been in a fight with a sex demon and lost.”

Nat sipped her tea. “Interesting choice of words.”

Y/N froze, mid-pour.

Joaquin grinned. “You really let him toss you around like that, huh?”

“It was training,” She said, spinning on her heel with her mug in both hands like a shield. “Combat scenario prep. Realistic sparring. You know—completely normal, professional things.”

Nat raised one perfect brow. “Uh-huh. You’re telling me he realistically had to pin you by both wrists and hold you down with his thigh?”

“Also—” Yelena leaned in, eyes dancing with glee. “—who trains by saying ‘do it again’ like they’re in a damn romance novel?”

She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “I knew one of you was creeping around the gym.”

Joaquin pointed to himself proudly. “Guilty. I only saw the aftermath. You on the floor, looking very pleased with yourself. And him walking away like he had just committed a felony in slow motion.”

Nat tilted her head. “You’re flushed. Your heart rate’s elevated. And you’ve been glancing at the hallway every three minutes like he might walk in.”

“I am not—”

“You are,” all three said in unison.

She downed half her coffee in one desperate gulp.

Yelena smirked. “So when’s the wedding?”

“There’s nothing happening,” Y/N gritted out. “We’re just… training partners.”

“Mm,” Nat hummed. “He brings you ice packs. Makes you drink water. Pins you to the floor and still looks like he wants to apologize and devour you.”

Yelena leaned forward, conspiratorially. “You like it when he tosses you around, don’t you?”

She looked away, cheeks turning pink. “That’s not the point.”

Joaquin leaned back, satisfied. “I give it a week.”

The rest of the day was quiet. Briefings, running over intel, training new recruits, and then me time.

Not the strained kind of quiet, not the post-sparring-charged silence full of tension and unresolved heat. This was soft—the kind of quiet that felt like being let in on a secret, like finding stillness in the middle of noise.

Bucky padded into the kitchen early the next day, hoodie on, hair damp from the shower, and already bracing himself for a typical chaotic morning. He expected her teasing, maybe Ava’s side-eyes, Joaquin’s smirks—but the kitchen was empty.

Except for one thing.

A familiar silver and blue bag of coffee grounds sat on the counter. The fancy stuff. The kind from that café downtown—the one that always had a line out the door, too many people in too tight a space, too many eyes, too much everything. He hated going there. She knew that. He loved their home brew. She also knew that.

He picked up the bag slowly, thumb brushing over the label, and turned when he heard soft footsteps behind him.

She stood in the doorway, hoodie oversized, sleeves covering her hands. Hair still messy. Face open and quiet in a way that wasn’t like her usual smirking self. She shrugged one shoulder like it was nothing.

“Thought you might want real coffee today,” she said casually, moving to grab a glass from the cabinet. “Figured it might save you from drinking whatever burnt tragedy Joaquin brewed before his run.”

Bucky stared at her, then down at the bag.

“You went to Corvus for this?”

She didn’t look at him. “Yeah. Left early. The line wasn’t that bad.”

He raised a brow. “They wrap the block at six a.m.—”

“I know,” she said, glancing at him. “I waited. It’s not a big deal.”

But it was.

Because she knew. She knew he wouldn’t go there himself. Knew it made him feel boxed in, overwhelmed. She did it anyway—got up early, stood in a crowd for him, just so he could have something small and good without asking for it.

Bucky swallowed hard. His voice was quiet. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” she said again, softer this time.

And she didn’t smile, didn’t joke, didn’t make it into something flirtatious or clever. She just moved around him, brushing his shoulder lightly with hers, and started rinsing out the French press without a word. Like she did this all the time. Like it was easy for her to care about him.

And God, maybe it was.

Maybe that’s what made it so hard.

Because this—this simple, quiet thing—was the kind of intimacy that rattled him more than her on top of him, more than the heat, more than the teasing. It was the way she saw him. The way she didn’t ask him to earn it. The way she made space for him without saying anything at all.

He stood there for a beat longer, the coffee grounds in his hands.

Then he reached up, tugged gently at the end of her hoodie sleeve.

She glanced up.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

She gave him the smallest smile. Not cocky. Not playful. Just warm.

“Anytime, Buck.”

He nodded, looking down. Like if he looked at her too long, he’d say something he couldn’t take back.

Something true.

So he stayed quiet.

Pretended it was nothing.

Even though his chest felt too full and too exposed, and the smell of her shampoo mixed with the fresh coffee grounds was going to haunt him for the rest of the day.

The gym was mostly empty in the late morning—just the steady thump, thump, thump of fists hitting heavy bags and the low hum of classic rock playing from the corner speaker.

Bucky’s hands were wrapped tight, knuckles red, sweat slicking down the back of his neck. He drove his fist into the bag again, harder this time, the chain above it rattling from the force. He hadn’t said much since he walked in, just started throwing punches with a tension Sam immediately clocked.

Sam jabbed at the bag next to him, side-eyeing Bucky in the mirror. “You planning to knock that thing off the chain or are you working through something?”

Bucky didn’t answer. Just threw another hard right. Jaw clenched.

Sam ducked under his own bag, shaking his head. “Uh-huh. That’s what I thought.”

“I’m fine.”

“You always say that when you’re two hits away from breaking your own wrist.”

Bucky grunted, stepped back, shook out his arms. “It’s nothing.”

Sam grabbed a towel and tossed one to him. “Sure it’s not about Y/N?”

That stopped him cold. His expression didn’t change much, but his next punch was slower. Less focus. More distraction.

Sam caught that, too. “C’mon, man. Just talk to me. You’ve been in a fog for weeks. Ever since she started walking around all bruised and smirking like she survived a full round with a bear—and you’re out here trying to pretend like it wasn’t you who threw her around like a rag doll.”

Bucky huffed out something like a laugh, breathless and tight. He leaned against the bag, arms draped over the top of it, eyes low.

Sam waited. Didn’t push. Just gave him space.

Eventually, Bucky spoke, voice low and rough. “It’s hard.”

Sam turned to him fully. “What is?”

“Pretending I don’t feel what I feel.”

That surprised Sam, if only because Bucky never admitted things like that out loud.

Bucky kept going, words slow but honest. “She makes it too easy. Being around her. Laughing with her. Sparring. Sitting in silence. It doesn’t matter what we’re doing, it’s like she… I dunno. Made space for me in her life like it was always supposed to be there.”

Sam was quiet. Watching. Listening.

“And then yesterday, she shows up with this stupid bag of coffee from that place I hate going to—the crowded one, Corvus.” He exhaled hard through his nose. “She knows I hate that place. Knows I can’t stand the crowds, the noise. So she goes for me. Gets up early, waits in line. Doesn’t even say anything about it. Just leaves it there on the counter.”

His fists clenched around the towel.

“I didn’t even ask.”

Sam’s voice was quiet. “That’s just how she is.”

“I know,” Bucky muttered, like that made it worse. “She just… gives. Doesn’t expect anything back. Doesn’t realize how much that shit wrecks me.”

—

It was past 2 a.m. when Bucky gave up trying.

Sleep just wouldn’t come.

He’d tossed and turned for hours—hot, then cold, then hot again, sheets twisted around his legs, chest tight with something he couldn’t shake. He even tried jerking off, quietly in the dark, hand slow and rough beneath the blanket, biting his lip to stay quiet while thinking about her—always her. The way she looked on the mat. The way she said “do it again.” The way she’d smiled when she handed him his favorite coffee like it cost her nothing and meant everything.

He came with her name in his mouth and that ache still lodged behind his ribs.

Didn’t help. Not even a little.

So he got up, pulled on a t-shirt and sweatpants, and padded barefoot through the darkened compound halls, the silence heavy and familiar. He told himself he was going to the kitchen for water. Maybe tea. Something to give him an excuse to be awake.

But when he walked in, the smell hit him first.

Brownies.

Rich, chocolatey, warm.

And there she was.

Y/N stood in front of the oven in her big gray sleep shirt and socks, hair falling around her shoulders, backlit by the open fridge as she grabbed milk. She didn’t jump when he came in—just glanced over and smiled like she’d been expecting him all along.

“Insomnia?” she asked softly.

He nodded. “Yeah. You?”

She shrugged, already plating two brownies. “Wanted something sweet.”

He moved toward her like he couldn’t stop himself, like gravity pulled him. “You’re making brownies at 2 a.m. and watching—what is this?” he squinted at the TV in the living room beyond the kitchen, where soft romantic music played from a half-muted speaker, “27 Dresses?”

“It’s a classic,” she said without looking at him, offering him a plate. “And the perfect comfort movie when you’re wide awake and a little emotionally unstable.”

He let out a quiet laugh, sitting down on the floor in front of the couch without even thinking about it. She followed with her own plate, flopping onto the couch above him and pulling the throw blanket over her legs.

They didn’t talk after that.

Just sat.

The only sounds were the quiet murmur of the movie, the occasional clink of forks against plates, and the soft rustle of her shifting as she laid down, one leg hooked over the armrest.

Bucky leaned back against the couch, resting his elbows on his knees, head tilting slightly toward her without realizing it.

At some point, he felt her fingers in his hair.

Slow. Gentle. Just barely there at first, like she wasn’t sure if he’d let her.

But he didn’t move.

Her nails scraped lightly over his scalp, smoothing back his hair, again and again, until his shoulders stopped tensing. His eyes got heavier. The movie blurred in the background, and the only thing he could feel was her.

Her hand. Her breath above him. The warmth of her knee brushing his back through the blanket.

He didn’t remember falling asleep.

But she did.

Because when she finally drifted off too, he was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of her, head resting against her thigh, and she had one hand still tangled in his hair—her fingers curled like she never wanted to let go.

And so they kept living like that. Close enough but not too close. She had protein bars in her gear bag in missions, exactly the chocolate fudge ones he liked, her guns somehow were always clean (nothing to do with the very expert 108 year old sniping super soldier that stayed back in the armory for extra time to clean it for her), and there was flirty banter in the comms during missions. Nothing to get them off game but enough to make her blush and bucky let out a breathy chuckle.

The team was doing so great, Tony thought a party was the way to go. Celebrate, get a few photo ops, and so they did.

The party was loud. Music pulsing through the walls of the tower, laughter echoing from the bar to the balcony, the sound of glasses clinking and the occasional whoop from the pool table corner. It was one of those rare nights where every Avenger—or former one—could finally let loose. After a couple of hours, the only people that stayed were on a need to know basis. And by that, they mean no press, no photographers or journalists waiting for a juicy scoop.

And Y/N?

She was glowing.

Her black silk mini dress shimmered like liquid ink every time the light caught it. The open back dipped dangerously low, revealing smooth, warm skin he could trace with his eyes closed. No bra—not with that dress—and Bucky could barely look at her without his palms itching to touch. Her hair was blown out and curled in that way that framed her face like something out of a vintage ad, sultry and soft all at once. And her heels—those strappy YSL ones she’d muttered were a splurge, but worth it—lengthened her legs in a way that should’ve been illegal.

He couldn’t stop staring.

She was laughing at something Sam said, head tipped back, one hand holding her drink, the other resting lightly on Bucky’s bicep like it belonged there. Her nails were painted a deep, wine red. Her perfume, the one she always wore when she wanted to feel “like a princess fairy frolicking in the rain” as she so eloquently put it—clung to the space between them like a secret. Every time she leaned closer to talk to him over the music, it seeped into his bloodstream, thick and sweet and warm.

And she was dangerous. Because she smiled up at him like he hung the damn moon just for her. Looked at him with those doe eyes and long lashes like he was the only person in the room worth seeing. She laughed at all his quiet jokes he didn’t think anyone caught, pulled him into her orbit like it was effortless, and stood just close enough for his fingers to brush the soft curve of her lower back if he moved an inch.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Because he was too tightly wound, too aware of the fire under his skin. Every muscle in his body was tense, his jaw clenched, hands shoved deep in his pockets so he wouldn’t give in to the need—to press her up against the wall of Tony’s ridiculous marble hallway and kiss her until her lipstick smeared across both their mouths. To tangle his hands in that perfect hair and ruin it. To tear that damn silk dress at the seams and drop to his knees.

Instead, he stayed exactly where he was. Silent. Still. Burning.

“You okay?” she asked softly, glancing up at him, unreadable but warm. Like she knew.

He gave her a crooked half-smile. “Yeah.. Just… takin’ it all in.”

She didn’t push. Just smiled back, slow and knowing, brushing her shoulder lightly against his arm as she turned back to the group. But that look stayed with him.

That look.

The one that made it so damn hard to keep pretending this was nothing. The one that made him wonder—again—how much longer he could last before he finally gave in and kissed her like he’d been dying to since the first day they met.

And if she kept smiling at him like that, he knew the answer was: not much longer at all.

Everyone was tipsy by that point. The dance floor was booming, a playlist carefully curated by the chaos triplets (her, Yelena, and Joaquin) and after flip cup, tequila pong, and some other drinking game that she won by making Joaquin drink most of it, they were sitting on the couch.

Her legs curled under her and his arm sprawled on the back of the couch almost close enough to touch her, and conversation came easy, like it always did. And it got interrupted. Like it always did.

He was about to say something in response to the nerdy comment she let out when an arm snaked around her waist.

“Come on,” Yelena said, tugging her toward the bar with a gleam in her eyes.

“What now?”

“Blowjob shots,” Yelena replied, like that explained everything.

“I—” But she didn’t have time to argue; Yelena was already pushing two glasses toward the bartender. Whipped cream, liqueur, the works.

“Hands behind your back,” Yelena ordered with mock sternness.

She laughed, giving in, and they both leaned down to knock them back without using their hands, earning a round of cheers from nearby onlookers. When she straightened, the sweet burn of alcohol warming her throat, her eyes instinctively sought him out across the room.

Bucky was still where she’d left him—leaning against the couch, beer in hand, blue eyes locked on her like she was the only thing worth looking at in the entire party.

And then the opening notes of Usher’s Nice & Slow rolled through the speakers.

“Ohhh yes,” Yelena grinned, seizing her wrist. “Bar top. Now.”

She laughed again, letting herself be pulled onto the bar. The music was slow but heavy, the kind of rhythm that made everyone move closer. She danced with Yelena, letting the crowd sway around them, but her gaze kept drifting back—always back—to where he sat.

He hadn’t moved, but she could feel the weight of his stare from across the room, heat crawling up her neck every time their eyes met.

She wanted—achingly, desperately—to be back on the couch beside him, knees brushing, leaning in close enough to feel his breath. It was almost physically painful to be this far, to have the bass thrumming in her chest instead of his voice in her ear.

Her lips curved softly, not the playful smirk she usually gave him, but something quieter. Warmer.

And Bucky—God help him—looked like he’d stand there all night if it meant keeping her in his sight.

Somewhere in the song, Sam convinced Bucky to get a refill of whatever they were both drinking, as if regular alcohol did anything for him except give him that faint burn in his throat.

The hem of that silk dress flirted with indecency every time she moved, catching the glow of the lights in a way that made it impossible for him to look away.

And then—just as she spun to face the crowd—her foot slipped.

She gasped, arms flailing for half a second before gravity took over.

Bucky was already moving.

By the time her feet left the bar, he was there, catching her against his chest like she weighed nothing. The impact pressed them close, her perfume wrapping around him, the warmth of her body soaking straight through his shirt.

They froze there.

The noise of the party blurred, the cheering fading to the background as her wide, slightly glassy eyes locked on his. His hands were firm at her back and thigh, steadying her, but neither of them moved to let go.

It was a beat too long—long enough for the crowd’s whoops to turn into knowing laughter, for Yelena to smirk down from the bar like she’d orchestrated it herself.

Her lips parted, but no words came out. Bucky’s chest rose and fell against hers, his grip not loosening, not yet.

Finally, she cleared her throat, the faintest smile tugging at her mouth. “Thanks, Buck.”

He didn’t trust himself to answer. Not with her still in his arms like that.

—

Bucky lost track of her for a while—saw her laughing near the bar with Wanda, then weaving through the crowd with a fresh drink in hand. Every so often, she’d glance up and catch him looking.

And each time, she didn’t look away right away.

Just let it hang there—eyes on his, a faint curve at her mouth, the smallest tilt of her head—before turning back to whoever she was talking to.

It was driving him insane.

“Buck.” Steve’s voice cut in, low but amused. He followed Bucky’s line of sight. “You’re staring again.”

“I’m not—”

“Sure,” Steve said, sipping his drink. “Not like I’ve watched you track her like a sniper all night.”

Sam wandered over in time to hear that. “Oh, he’s absolutely staring. Look at him. Man’s ready to risk international incidents over a dress.”

Bucky glared. “Don’t you have a bar to bother?”

“Not as fun as this,” Sam grinned.

The second the thudding beat of “Don’t Stop the Music” drops, the dance floor lights shift into a rhythmic kaleidoscope, strobes of crimson and gold spinning over the crowd—and Bucky sees her.

Striding back toward him, dress clinging to her like second skin, cheeks flushed from dancing and shots and laughing too hard. Her hair is a little messier now, like someone’s fingers have already been in it—his fingers, in a dream he can’t stop replaying. Her heels click across the floor, and she’s beaming like a girl with a mission.

His mission.

“You look like a ghost over here, Barnes,” she says, leaning in close enough for her lips to brush his ear. “Come dance with me.”

He lifts a brow, legs still planted like he’s resisting gravity itself. “Don’t know how to dance. Not in this century anyway.”

She backs up, grinning wicked and sweet, her voice playful and soft.

“Please? You owe me.”

“Owe you what?”

She tilts her head, pouting. “For tossing me around like a chew toy in the training room.”

He opens his mouth to argue—then closes it. Because she’s right. And because, if she’s asking, he’d walk through fire barefoot.

With a sigh, he stands. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Her eyes flicker, warm and too knowing. “I know.”

She laces her fingers with his, tugging him through the crowd. When they reach the center of the floor, the music swells—Rihanna’s voice wrapping around them like velvet, pulsing through the floor, through their bones.

“Do you know what you started? I just came here to party…”

She turns to face him and takes his hands, places them gently—intimately—on her waist. He swallows hard. Her skin is warm beneath the silk, and she smiles up at him like she’s handing him the sun.

“Just follow me,” she says, stepping closer. Their bodies brush, chest to chest, her thigh slipping between his legs, her hands trailing up his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He tries. God, he tries. Lets her guide his hips in time with hers, matching the slow sway of the rhythm. Her hands on his shoulders, his sliding lower—hesitating for just a breath—then resting firmly on her hips.

That’s it. He’s gone.

“We’re hand in hand, chest to chest, and now we’re face to face…”

His heart’s pounding. She smells like rose and sugar and something warm and sinful. The lights catch in the waves of her hair, casting glints of gold across her cheekbones. Her smile softens, eyes hooded and bright as she moves against him, rolling her hips just so.

He can’t think. Can’t breathe. She’s everywhere. The music blurs behind the pounding of blood in his ears.

Her fingers brush the back of his neck, pulling him closer. “You’re doing fine,” she whispers, and it’s intimate the way she says it—like it means more. Like she’s not just talking about dancing anymore.

His fingers tighten on her hips without meaning to. His head dips a little, so their foreheads nearly touch.

And the worst part?

He’s hard. Hard—from nothing but the way she smells and feels and moves, from the way she’s looking at him like she wants him just as badly. His jeans feel too tight, and he’s silently praying she doesn’t notice—but she does. She definitely does.

Because when her hips roll a little slower and her smile turns into something smug and devastating, her lips brush the edge of his jaw like an accident.

Across the room, from their booth near the bar, the entire team watches with open-mouthed awe.

Yelena practically leans over Nat’s lap, whisper-yelling, “LOOK at them! He’s about to combust! I give him two minutes before he does something illegal.”

“I mean,” Joaquin says, sipping his beer, “that man is at 110% capacity. He’s holding onto her like the Geneva Conventions don’t apply anymore.”

Nat takes one sip of her drink, completely unbothered. “She’s going to end up in his lap before this song ends.”

“He’s going to melt,” Yelena mutters. “His brain is short-circuiting. He has no idea what to do with her being all…” She gestures vaguely toward the dance floor. “That.”

They all watch in stunned silence as she tilts her head, leans in, and presses her lips—barely—against Bucky’s jaw, soft and slow and achingly deliberate. His hand spasms on her hip, and his eyes flutter shut.

Sam just whispers, “Dead man walking.”

The song ends in a blur of heat, heartbeat, and breathless tension.

The final beat fades and the lights shift, but Bucky doesn’t move. He’s still holding her—one hand on her hip, the other on her lower back, close enough to feel every inch of her, even as the rhythm slows and the crowd around them begins to disperse or shift partners.

She doesn’t pull away either.

She just looks up at him with flushed cheeks, the kind of quiet smile that could crack a man in half.

His head is spinning.

And then—

“Barnes!”

Tony’s voice cuts through the tension like a knife. “I need you for a second. Something about the heat sensors in the garage triggering—probably nothing, but Friday’s being dramatic.”

Bucky stiffens, jaw tight, eyes snapping back to her as if silently begging her not to move.

She smiles a little. Gentle. Understanding. Doesn’t say a word. Just brushes her fingers down his chest lightly as she steps away.

He walks away, slow and steady, but the second he’s out of view, he beelines for the balcony—cold air slamming into his lungs like a mercy. He braces both hands on the railing, heart thudding so hard it echoes in his ears, and closes his eyes.

The scent of her is still on his skin. The curve of her body still mapped on his hands. His brain is a mess—tequila, silk, her mouth near his ear, the roll of her hips to the beat, the softness in her voice when she looked up at him like he was something worth holding onto.

“Buck.” Sam’s voice is the first to cut through the haze.

Followed by footsteps.

Joaquin and Steve join them a moment later, all three of them lined up like a judgment panel at a very inappropriate emotional support group.

Bucky doesn’t turn around.

“I don’t wanna hear it.”

Sam crosses his arms. “We’re not here to tease you.”

Joaquin: “I am. But I can wait till you’ve calmed down a little.”

Steve leans on the railing beside him. “You okay?”

Bucky exhales sharply, still staring at the skyline. “I just—fuck, I don’t know.”

“She looked at you like you hung the moon,” Joaquin says. “You’re acting like she threw you off a cliff.”

“She danced with me,” Bucky mutters. “In that dress. Smelled like her perfume. Said things that—” He stops himself, swallowing thickly. “It’s not just the flirting. It’s her. Everything she does, everything she is, just makes it harder to pretend like this doesn’t matter.”

Steve’s voice is calm. “So stop pretending.”

“I can’t.” Bucky’s voice is strained, quiet. “Because the second I stop pretending… I won’t ever be able to stop. I’ll want everything.”

There’s a long silence.

Sam finally sighs. “You already want everything. You’re just suffering in a darker corner while it happens.”

“I’m trying to keep my shit together,” Bucky mutters. “That’s all I’m doing.”

Joaquin pats his back. “Brother, respectfully… you’re losing. Bad.”

Inside, the party hadn’t slowed down.

The music was still loud, the lights still spinning, people still drinking like the night had no end.

Y/N was dancing, laughing, shot glass in hand—but something about her was different now.

The spark hadn’t gone out. It had just dimmed.

Wanda noticed first. She leaned over from their little dance circle and murmured, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she said too quickly. Too brightly. “Totally. Great.” She forced a smile, took the tequila shot, and joined Yelena in a loose sway to the beat of some Dua Lipa remix. Her movements were smooth, effortless even—but detached.

Because every few seconds, her eyes flicked toward the hallway.

The stairs.

The kitchen.

The bar.

Anywhere he might’ve gone.

Anywhere he might come back from.

But he didn’t.

Not once.

Not even for a second.

Still no Bucky.

Not even a glimpse.

She reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, fingers brushing her cheek where the warmth of his touch had lingered earlier, like her body was still remembering something her brain was trying not to hope for.

She smiled at someone walking by. She complimented Wanda’s dress. She joked with Yelena. She took another shot.

But the ache in her chest kept blooming.

Because if he left after that moment—after everything she said, everything she let him feel, everything she let herself feel—then maybe she had been wrong.

Maybe he didn’t want her like that.

And maybe pretending again was the only thing left.

He’d half expected her to stay inside.

To keep laughing with her friends, to let the night run its course without making this any harder than it already was.

But then the balcony door cracked open, the hum of the party spilling out for a second before it clicked shut again.

She stepped out into the cool air, arms wrapping lightly around herself, her heels clicking softly against the stone as she crossed to him.

“I think I went too far,” she said quietly.

Bucky straightened from the railing. “What?”

“With the dancing.” Her gaze darted to his, then away again. “And the shots. And—” she exhaled, her breath misting faintly in the night air—“just the whole night. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t,” he said immediately, the word sharper than he intended.

Her brow furrowed. “You left.”

“I needed air.”

She looked up at him then, searching his face. “Because of me?”

He hesitated, the truth burning a hole in his chest. “Because you…” He stopped, shook his head. “You make it hard to think sometimes.”

Her lips parted, but she didn’t move, didn’t push. “I’m sorry if I—”

“Don’t be.” His voice had gone low, steady, even though inside it was anything but. “You didn’t cross any lines. If anything…” He trailed off, the rest caught somewhere between his throat and his better judgment.

The faintest crease softened from her brow, replaced by something warmer. “Okay.”

They stood there for a beat, the muffled bass of the party behind them, the scent of her perfume threading into the night air, her bare back catching the glow from inside.

She didn’t go right back in.

Instead, she stepped up beside him, resting her forearms on the railing, her gaze settling on the city spread out below—lights twinkling, the distant hum of traffic like a low tide.

He mirrored her posture, close enough that her bare arm brushed his sleeve when the wind shifted.

For a few beats, neither of them spoke. Then her right leg flexed slightly, brushing against the back of his left calf in a slow, idle motion—barely there, but impossible to ignore.

“I’m glad you came out tonight,” she said at last, eyes still on the skyline. “I know you hate this kind of thing. The crowds, the noise, the… glitz.”

Bucky’s mouth quirked, his gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance. “I don’t hate them when you’re around.”

Her head turned toward him then, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “That’s sweet.”

He kept looking at the city, but there was the faintest warmth in his voice. “It’s true.”

She let her gaze linger on him for a moment longer, then turned back to the skyline. The city lights reflected faintly in her eyes, her perfume threading through the cool air between them.

The quiet felt good. Easy.

And then the balcony door slid open.

“There you are!” Yelena’s voice broke in, bright and unbothered. “We’re starting another round of shots, come on.”

Her leg stilled against his, but she didn’t move right away—just glanced at him with that small smile again before pushing off the railing.

“Don’t disappear on me,” she said softly, and then she was gone, heels clicking against the stone as she slipped back inside.

Bucky stayed where he was, staring at the city but not really seeing it, the ghost of her touch still burning against his leg.

—

The party winded down slowly, like the last embers of a fire—guests trickling out, music fading to something mellow and soft, heels dangling from tired hands and laughter tapering off into warm, late-night sighs. The compound glowed with golden light, casting everything in that sleepy, after-midnight haze.

She was barefoot now, dress wrinkled from dancing, curls loosened and falling around her flushed cheeks. She held her heels in one hand and Bucky’s in the other, fingers laced like it was second nature now.

Neither of them said much on the walk to her room.

There was a calm between them, thick and charged but sweet, their shoulders bumping gently as they made their way down the quiet hallway. The world had quieted but something between them hadn’t. If anything, it pulsed louder now in the silence.

When they reached her door, she turned to face him, thumb brushing softly along his knuckles.

“Thanks for staying with me tonight,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Even when it got… complicated.”

He smiled, tired and crooked and full of something real. “There’s nowhere else I’d wanna be.”

His eyes flicked to the door behind her, and then back to her face, jaw tightening slightly like he was bracing himself. “I should let you get some rest,” he murmured, already starting to release her hand.

But she didn’t let go.

Instead, she stepped closer. So close her chest brushed his. So close her breath ghosted across his jaw when she looked up at him through those lashes and asked, softly—

“Will you come inside?”

She pressed her body gently to his, looking up at him like a prayer wrapped in perfume and silk. Her voice was barely there. Sweet. Devastating.

“I know,” she whispered. “You’re being good. Always good.” She reached up, her fingers slipping into his hair, thumb brushing behind his ear. “But I don’t want you to be a gentleman tonight. I just want you.”

God help him.

She could’ve pushed. Could’ve teased.

But she was asking.

Soft. Open. Wanting.

And that was what broke him.

Not the look in her eyes.

Not the warmth of her hand on his chest.

Not even the sweet, aching kiss she gave him just before she whispered “stay with me.”

It was the way she meant it.

He didn’t speak. Just nodded, quiet and reverent, and followed her in.

She closed the door behind them, turned to face him, and his hands were already on her hips, already backing her toward the bed like he’d been dreaming of this moment for months. And he had.

Her room was warm and dim, lit only by the faint city light bleeding through the curtains and the soft glow of the lamp she’d forgotten to turn off earlier. It smelled like her—rose, linen, skin—and for the first time in what felt like forever, Bucky didn’t feel like a soldier or a ghost or something caught between centuries.

He felt like a man. And she was looking at him like he was hers.

She took his hand and led him wordlessly to the bed, her dress whispering against her thighs with each step. Then she gently pressed at his chest, coaxing him to sit, and he went willingly—like there was never a world in which he wouldn’t.

He sat at the edge, legs apart, fingers twitching against his knees like he didn’t know what to do with himself now that she was this close and everything was real.

She stood between his knees, barefoot and flushed, looking down at him like he held every answer in the world. Her fingers hovered near his jaw before finally brushing along his cheek with a tenderness that made his throat tighten.

He kissed her like she was the only thing he’d ever get to taste again.

Like he needed her.

Like he’d earned this—every sigh, every shiver, every inch of skin he was about to memorize.

Bucky shifted gently, turning and laying her back against the mattress like she was something precious, his hands strong and steady as he guided her down with him. Her legs stayed curled around his hips, but her arms stretched out above her for a moment, hair spilling like a halo across the pillow, messy and radiant in the low golden light. Her lips were swollen from kissing, cheeks pink and eyes heavy-lidded and so full of trust it nearly undid him.

She looked up at him like he was everything she wanted.

And it broke his heart a little—because she was everything he didn’t know he could want.

His metal hand braced beside her head, while the other brushed her hair back with tender fingers.

“You sure?” he murmured, voice low, gravel-soft. “I’ll stop right now if you want me to.”

She reached up, curled her fingers gently around the collar of his shirt, and tugged him down until their foreheads touched. Her voice was barely a breath. “Bucky, I think if I ask you to stop I’ll slap myself into a different dimension.”

He kissed her again—soft and deep and lingering—before beginning his slow descent.

First, her mouth.

Then her cheek.

Then the edge of her jaw, warm skin beneath his lips.

He pressed another kiss just below her ear, then lower, along the curve of her throat, sucking gently until she sighed, her hips twitching against his. He smiled against her skin.

“Sensitive?” he murmured, teasing.

“You’re mean,” she whispered, grinning, breath catching as he kissed lower, slow.

“Not yet,” he said, and her soft gasp when he said it told him exactly what she liked.

He trailed down, mouthing gently along her collarbone, nuzzling the dip there before kissing lower—pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses over the front of her dress, feeling the warmth of her through the silk.

Her hands slipped into his hair again, hips rolling subtly beneath him.

Bucky slid his hand up her thigh, pushing the silk of the dress higher as he went. When he kissed just above her breast, he paused, giving her time to stop him.

She didn’t.

Instead, she arched up into his touch.

“Off,” she whispered, voice breathy and low. “Take it off.”

He helped her sit up just enough to slip the straps of her dress down her shoulders, letting it fall away, slow and reverent, like he was unwrapping something sacred. The fabric pooled at her waist, exposing her bare chest, and Bucky stilled.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe.

She was beautiful. Beyond reason. Every inch of her soft and warm and real beneath his hands. The soft curve of her breasts, the line of her ribs, the flush of her chest—all of it was hers, and she was giving it to him.

She brushed her thumb over his bottom lip. “Yours,” she said again. “I want to feel your mouth everywhere.”

He groaned like it hurt.

Then did exactly what she asked.

He kissed her breast, slow and warm, his tongue flicking gently over her nipple before he sucked—just enough to make her moan, soft and needy, back arching into his mouth.

“James,” she gasped, breath breaking.

He moved lower.

Kissed down her stomach.

Trails of fire where his mouth touched her skin, his hands smoothing down her sides as he dropped to his elbows, worshiping her with every inch he uncovered.

Each kiss was permission.

Each sigh from her was a plea for more.

He took his time.

Because he could.

Because she deserved it.

And because no part of him ever wanted to forget what it felt like to undress her with his mouth and hands and hear her whisper his name like it was the only thing she’d ever known.

Her dress was a crumpled mess of fabric in the corner of the room in no time.

He kissed the inside of her thigh, then again, higher this time. Her fingers curled in the sheets. Her breath caught in her throat. Her chest rose with every shiver he drew from her, every gentle nip of his teeth.

But even through the haze of pleasure and fire, she noticed it.

He was only touching her with one hand.

His flesh hand skimmed up her ribcage, cupping her breast, brushing his thumb across her nipple. It trembled slightly with the weight of restraint, thumb circling slowly, eyes locked to her face like he wanted to memorize every expression she made.

But his metal hand?

Still.

On the bed.

Braced beside her, fingers flexing against the sheets like he was scared of his own grip.

And suddenly she knew.

He didn’t think she noticed, but of course she did. He always did this—always kept that hand in his pocket when they walked, always reached for her cheek with the other when they hugged. Not because he was ashamed of it. But because he thought she might be afraid of it. That it might hurt her. That it wasn’t gentle enough for this.

Her heart ached.

Because it was his. All of him was.

And she wanted every inch.

So while his mouth found the crease of her thigh and kissed it open—while she let her head tip back and moaned soft and low as his tongue began to tease her gently—her hand reached down. Found his metal wrist. Cool and tense beneath her fingertips.

He hesitated.

She guided it up.

First, to her throat.

His breath hitched.

“I want all of you,” she whispered, voice shaky but sure. “Touch me. Please. Don’t hold back.”

His fingers, stiff at first, settled gently around her throat. Not squeezing. Just resting. Measuring the beat of her pulse. Feeling how she thrived beneath him.

He groaned softly, mouth never leaving her, tongue now licking deeper, slower, groaning when she rocked her hips against his face like she was unraveling for him and him alone.

“Fuck,” she breathed, a whimper curling from her throat. “Bucky, yes—”

His metal thumb brushed up over her pulse.

Still careful.

Still hesitant.

So she let her hand drift from his hair, down his arm, until she gently tugged it from her throat—then guided it to her breast.

His breath stuttered.

And then he groaned—deep and guttural—because she arched into his touch, chest rising against his palm, moaning louder now as his mouth moved faster and the cold metal cupped the heat like it belonged there.

It did.

He wasn’t too rough.

He wasn’t too much.

He was hers.

And when she came on his tongue, thighs shaking around his head, her nails digging into his forearm—flesh and metal—he looked up at her like a man lost to devotion, mouth slick with her, chest heaving, every inch of him aching to worship her again.

And again.

She lay there trembling, flushed from head to toe, her chest rising in soft, shaky breaths. Her skin damp with sweat and the lingering heat of release, and her lips parted in the aftermath of a moan that still echoed faintly in the air between them.

Bucky hadn’t moved yet.

He was still between her legs, still on his knees on the bed, chest heaving, mouth wet and pink and kissed raw from how thoroughly he’d worshiped her. His hair had fallen over his forehead, his pupils were blown, and his lips were parted as he stared at her like she was the first good thing he’d ever been allowed to have.

She reached for him, eyes still hazy but full of something tender—not just want, not just lust. Something deeper.

“C’mere,” she whispered, voice rasped.

He moved like he’d been summoned. Crawled up over her slowly, every inch of him controlled, caged, careful—still treating her like she might break.

But she wasn’t fragile.

She was his.

He braced himself on either side of her, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, and kissed her again—slower now, like he was trying to remember the shape of her mouth forever. She tasted herself on his tongue and moaned softly into it, fingers threading into his hair, tugging until he pressed harder, deeper, hips grinding against hers just enough to draw a shared gasp between them.

That’s when she felt it.

The thick, aching bulge pressed against her inner thigh through the fabric of his pants.

And God, the way he kissed her—desperate but reverent, like he was asking for permission even now, even after she’d fallen apart under him.

She broke the kiss first, breathless. “Take these off.”

He blinked, dazed. “What—?”

“Your clothes, Buck.” She cupped his jaw, guiding his gaze back to hers. “I want to see you.”

His throat bobbed. “You sure?”

She smiled, soft and utterly unshakable. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

He nodded once, shakily, and sat back on his knees again to strip.

He started with his shirt, pulling it over his head, slow and unsure—and when the fabric fell away, her breath caught.

Because God.

He was carved muscle and scars and history—shoulders broad, chest thick and dusted with hair, that metal arm catching the light as it flexed, still braced beside her. The blue glow from the city bled in through the curtains and danced over his collarbone and the sharp cut of his waist like it knew what it was doing.

Her eyes swept down the rest of him as he unfastened his belt and slid his pants down his hips. He didn’t say a word, didn’t preen or act cocky—but the way he saw her watching him?

It made his cock twitch.

And when he kicked the last of his clothes to the floor and settled between her thighs again, fully bared, she reached for him like she couldn’t stand another second of not touching him.

Their skin met, and both of them gasped.

“Fuck,” she whispered, hands running up his chest, over the metal plates of his shoulder, then down again to where he was now pressing, heavy and hard, against her center. “You’re so warm,” she breathed. “Everywhere.”

“Not everywhere,” he rasped, voice breaking.

She looked down between them—where he was thick and flushed and leaking against her skin, dragging slowly through the mess between her thighs.

And then she looked back up, gaze locked to his. “Then let me warm you up.”

She guided him to sit against the headboard, and he groaned, full-bodied, and moving up to kiss her again—this time messier, hungrier, his hand (the metal one) sliding under her thigh to grab at anything he could.

He lined himself up, rubbing the head of his cock through her folds, dragging it against her clit, teasing her with maddening slowness as they both panted into each other’s mouths.

She arched into him, desperate. “Please,” she whispered. “Bucky—please, I need you—”

“You have me,” he said, and then she sank down.

Slow.

Thick.

Deep.

Her mouth fell open with a gasped cry, her head tilting back, eyes fluttering shut as he filled her inch by inch.

And he—

He was fucking ruined.

His jaw clenched hard. His head tipped back against the headboard with a low, wrecked groan that vibrated deep in his chest. “Fuck— baby, you’re so—tight, so warm—”

Her fingers braced on his chest, nails dragging lightly through the hair there as she rocked her hips forward another inch, then another, watching him the whole time.

He was staring at her like she was the most sacred, sinful thing he’d ever seen.

The way her breath caught. The way her eyes fluttered closed for just a second before opening again. The way her lips parted on a sigh when she finally bottomed out and sat flush against him, completely full.

She shuddered above him, breathless.

The stretch was intense, almost too much—but exactly what she craved. That aching, burning fullness that made her feel his in the most intimate, undeniable way.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky groaned, his hands gripping her hips tighter, eyes wide as he looked down between them, then up at her again. “You feel like—fucking heaven.”

She smiled softly, still catching her breath. “You okay?”

He laughed under his breath, almost in disbelief. “I’ve never been more than okay a second in my life until right now.”

She rolled her hips slightly, just once, just to feel him shift inside her—and his hands spasmed on her hips, head dropping forward to rest against her chest.

She cradled the back of his head with one hand and whispered into his hair, “We can move when you’re ready.”

“I am moving,” he muttered against her sternum, voice tight. “I’m moving closer to God.”

She giggled—and then moaned when he lifted his head and thrust up into her, slow but deep, pulling a sharp gasp from her throat.

Her eyes fluttered shut for just a second before she forced them open again.

“Keep looking at me,” she whispered. “I want to see you. Every time you fill me up.”

His pupils blown, lips kiss-swollen, face flushed and reverent—he obeyed.

Held her gaze while she rocked her hips against his, slow and deliberate, while she began to ride him. Controlled and sensual, meeting every upward thrust with a roll of her hips that left them both shaking.

Each time she sank down on him, they gasped—together. Her nails dug into his shoulders. His hands mapped every inch of her waist, her back, her thighs.

She felt like home.

He felt like worship.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he groaned. “You’re—fuck, baby—”

“Yours,” she breathed again, lips brushing his.

He kissed her. Deep and messy and filthy.

And still not nearly enough.

Their mouths crashed together again, all teeth and tongue and raw, panting heat. She rolled her hips down just as Bucky thrust up—deep—and they both moaned into each other’s mouths like the sound had nowhere else to go.

Her thighs quivered around him, every muscle tight and trembling with the effort of how slow they were going, how much it was building. Every drag of his cock inside her was perfect—thick, full, devastating—stretching her in a way that made her toes curl against the mattress.

And he watched her.

Eyes dark, wild, locked to the way her brows furrowed and her lips parted as she sank down on him again and again, the soft bounce of her breasts with each roll of her hips, the slick heat that gathered between them, shining on his cock every time he nearly slipped out.

“You feel so good,” she whispered, forehead pressed to his. “So full. Like I’m made for you.”

He groaned—choked on it—and buried his face in her neck, mouthing at her skin, tongue trailing over the salt-sweet curve of her collarbone as his hands gripped her tighter, one flesh and one metal.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he panted, voice ragged. “You’re killing me—riding me like you own me—”

“I do own you,” she whispered, smiling against his cheek.

And fuck, he loved the way she said it—teasing, sure, but also true. Because she did. Had for a long time. Had him wrapped around her finger, around her thighs, around the sweet heat of her body like a ribbon.

He kissed her again—rougher now, deeper—and started thrusting up harder, faster, matching the pace of her hips as the rhythm built between them. She gasped into his mouth, nails dragging down his back, head falling back to expose the line of her throat.

“Look at me,” he rasped again, hand on her jaw, tilting her face toward his. “I wanna see you come. Right here. On me.”

She nodded frantically, whining, eyes wide and heavy-lidded, her hips stuttering as the angle hit just right—again, and again, and again—the thick drag of him stroking over every nerve inside her until her thighs started to tremble.

“I’m close,” she whimpered. “Oh my God, Bucky—don’t stop—”

“I won’t,” he promised, breathless and earnest and wrecked. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, baby—come for me.”

And with one more deep, perfect thrust, she shattered.

His thrusts were stuttering now, deeper, more erratic, like his whole body was unraveling from the inside out.

Bucky’s forehead pressed against hers, breath shaking, metal hand wrapped tight around her waist while the other gripped her hip like a lifeline. Her pussy was fluttering around him, still soaked and pulsing from her orgasm, her moans breathy and desperate in his ear.

“Y/N,” he groaned, nearly broken. “Fuck, baby—I’m close, I’m gonna—shit—”

“Inside,” she begged. “You can—”

But something in him hesitated.

Not fear. Not shame. Just old instinct. He pulled out at the last second, thick and flushed and leaking—his hand already moving to finish himself, the hot rush of pleasure surging up like a wave about to crest. He was going to come all over her stomach, maybe her thighs, maybe his own hand—but then—

She moved fast. Too fast for him to stop her.

Dropped to her knees between his spread thighs on the bed, eyes burning into his as she gripped the base of his cock with one hand and took him in her mouth.

His entire body jerked.

“Fuck— Angel—Jesus!”

He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t even thought she would—he’d pulled out to be good, to be safe, to keep things controlled. Whatever that means now.

But now?

Her mouth was hot and wet and perfect, sucking him deep without hesitation, and his control shattered in an instant.

He came hard.

Groaned her name like it was ripped from his throat, one hand braced behind him against the headboard while the other—his metal one—curled into her hair on instinct as he spilled onto her tongue, pulse by pulse, gasping for breath like she’d knocked the air from his lungs.

She moaned around him—moaned—as she swallowed, lips wrapped tightly around him, not letting a single drop go to waste. Her hand stroked him through it, slowly, lovingly, her eyes fluttering closed like she was the one being given a gift.

“Holy shit,” he panted, watching her with wide, awe-struck eyes, chest heaving. “You—you didn’t have to—”

She pulled off of him with a little pop, licking her lips, smiling like she’d just devoured him whole.

“I wanted to,” she said softly, like that explained everything.

And it did.

Because she always knew what he needed—even when he didn’t.